


Chrysalis

by Tsuki



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anal Sex, Angst, Bacon, Bloodletting, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Excuse the probably totally wrong Romani elements, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Post Season 1, Religious Fanaticism, Rough Sex, Sappy, Series, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuki/pseuds/Tsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that he can change at will, his whole life feels like the day of a full-moon—his whole body feels an urge for escape, to be alone in the woods... but maybe being alone isn't what's best anymore. Not when there's an Upir eating his way across the New York, and a Vatican monster hunter on the trail. (post-Season One, multi-chapter, Peter/Roman)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I know many people have been writing "what happened?" and fix-it fics for Season One of Hemlock Grove. I guess now it's my turn. However, my imagination found itself too big for a one-shot, so enjoy ten chapters of what is essentially my Season Two of Hemlock Grove, with full references and spoilers for Netflix's Season One (will not be canon-complient with actual Netflix Season Two, obviously). I'll be exploring Peter's Romani heritage, vampire lore, and what could possibly bring Peter and Roman back together after all the pain in HG. Series is eventually heavily Peter/Roman and M-rated. I'm really looking forward to this craziness and I hope you have fun joining me on this journey. Happy Travels!

Her name is Anna and she is 22 years old. It’s Thursday night and she can call in ‘sick’ on Friday, so she is taking advantage of 321 Club’s tequila shot special. She is dressed in her favorite black dress with red pumps and matching red lipstick. She is planning on staying up late and dancing all night.

But then she turns and falls into the stare of two gorgeous blue eyes.

“Hello.” The voice sounds like it’s all around her, surrounding her, weaving its way inside her head. “You want to come home with me.” It’s a command, not a question. Her brain feels fuzzy. She is confused—isn’t it only nine o’clock? Who leaves anywhere at nine ‘clock? “Now.”

Suddenly, all her concerns feel like they are being pushed away by an ocean wind. “Yes,” she says. “Take me home with you.”

The man smiles a satisfied smile, his lips full and red. “Of course. Right this way...”

Tomorrow morning, when she wakes up in the New York City penthouse of the infamous Roman Godfrey, she’ll think herself incredibly lucky. When she brags to her friends about the loft’s great view, about the fabulous wine, and how passionate the Godfrey heir was—seriously, the tabloids have it all wrong!—she will never admit, to herself or anyone else, that she doesn’t remember a thing.

.  
.

Peter sighs as he pulls another newsprint wrapped glass out of the worn cardboard box. Three moves in two years. He hadn’t even finished unpacking some of his books at their old place, and yet here they are again. It isn’t a record for them, that’s for sure, but it is still notable. Especially given the tone of the past two moves.

The move to Hemlock Grove—that had seemed so simple and calm at first. A new start. A chance for them to be closer to family and to honor Nicolae. Then the murders and the suspicion and those strange government agents. And, oh God, Letha. The decision to leave hadn’t just been prudent—it had been necessary. A cleansing. A call. They had backtracked west after that, moving inland and back toward West Virginia. The state had a healthy list of state forests, areas for them to get lost and for Peter to run away his grief. The land there spoke of freedom, had once been hunted by the Shawnee and Cherokee. After the pain of Hemlock Grove, this rural area not far outside of Greenbrier had seemed like another fresh beginning.

Okay, yes, maybe shaving his head hadn’t been the smartest or the most stylish idea on Peter’s part, but he had been sick with grief. It was a reaction, something he could control. What Peter hadn’t predicted was a whole new wave of backlash and distrust. Those at his new school who didn’t already suspect and hate him for being a gypsy had thought he was some sort of crazy neo-Nazi. Peter half-heartedly tried to explain to a few people the idiocy of a Romani being a Nazi given the history of discrimination and otherness, but he hadn’t put much heart into it, hadn’t really connected with or met anyone who he felt like making such an effort with. He mostly sat in the back of classroom after classroom, counting the minutes until the end of his senior year, counting the seconds until the weekend—the only time when his mother would let him run.

It is all he lives for now—the run. The wolf is always clawing underneath his skin. Now that he can change at will, his whole life feels like the day of a full-moon—his sense of smell is heightened, his craving for meat and blood constant, his temper just a bit shorter. His whole body feels an urge for escape, to be alone in the woods. He felt that way all the time in West Virginia and it was likely telegraphed in his every word and move. He couldn’t help but think that those sacks of meat sitting around him in class could go fuck themselves. He had the wolf—that was all he needed. He was alone.

They had moved again after Peter had flunked out of his last math class. It wasn’t the concepts—it was the homework. He just couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t view it as important. Not when he still dreamed of Letha and blood, not when there were sounds and smells in the woods. His mother had been furious. Passing his GED had helped temper some of the fury, but West Virginia had been spoiled now. They packed their bags once again.

They drove eastward and north, barely talking until they reached Mohawk Valley. They had never lived in New York before. Peter had always envisioned New York as one big city, the whole state awash of light and flash and mechanical noise. He had never imagined the smell of pine and running water, the sound of wild birds rustling in lush leaves.

“Let’s make this one work,” his mother sighs now, staring somberly at the cloudy kissed sky. Peter mumbles an agreement, turning to lug the chaotically packed boxes into their new trailer.

“It’s Friday tomorrow,” Peter mentions casually, slipping a stack of plates into a cabinet. “I thought I could check out that woodsy area to the north. Get the lay of the land…”

“We already talked about this,” Lynda interrupts, setting down a pile of books a bit harder than necessary. “There’s a community here. I don’t want to step on any toes. You get permission, you can run—but I don’t want to make any waves here, Peter. We’ve had enough trouble in our lives. If you need to be out there, you need to tell the elders. There’s a protocol.”

“What happens if they don’t give me permission?”

Lynda hesitates, staring at the books she had set on the table. “Maybe we should stop unpacking for now… want some Mac and Cheese, baby?”

Peter feels the wolf’s hair rise until his skin, a tension growing in his neck. He lets her get away with her lack of an answer, knowing that there is no other choice for staying here in New York. Tomorrow, Peter will do his best to be the best gypsy he can be. He’ll be respectful and remember the old ways.

Lydia pours the plastic-like cheese mixture into two bowls, and Peter forces a smile. They are silent as they eat together, pretending that the boy sitting at the table is the same one his mother knew as a boy. That they are still a family, whole and together—that neither of them are alone.

.  
.

“I want him gone.”

Dr. Pryce holds back a grimace as he finishes adjusting a test-tube. When Bishop Gray had invested so heavily last year, Pryce had thought he was earning freedom from the kind of meddling the Godfreys had inflicted upon him. However, Gray has proven himself to be far worse—it isn’t just his interest and attempt at control over Pryce’s experiments, although that is also infuriating. No, it is his obsession with the young Godfrey heir.

“He is gone. At college. He has shown very little interest in coming back to Hemlock Grove or in taking up the reigns of this business. I fail to see how he could be much more absent, really. So he is, for all intense and purposes, ‘gone.’”

The old priest grimaces and his jaw clenches in stress. “The controlling share in this company is still controlled by that… ahem, him. Which means all expansion project votes need his presence. And he has spent most of the year, as you noted, avoiding any semblance of responsibility. We can’t move forward.”

Pryce smiles to himself over the Bishop’s disgust. The religious man clearly knows what the boy really is—he hasn’t said as much, but his animosity melded with fear still telegraphs it. The doctor wonders what else the man knows. So many possibilities. “We can move forward just fine. The young Godfrey has approved every project I’ve brought before him. You just mean you can’t move forward without his knowledge. Isn’t that right?”

The older man scowls, the shadows around his eyes dark. “Is there a way to force him off of the board?”

Pryce sighs dramatically, pausing a moment to take a sample from one of his new plant hybrids. He does this with exceeding slowness, savoring the impatient shifting of the Bishop’s feet. “No—Olivia’s will was quite clear. The only way Roman Godfrey loses majority control of Godfrey Enterprises is if he gives it up willingly. Or…” He pauses, letting the silence reel the older man in. “…if he goes missing or dies. But god forbid anything like that happens.”

“Oh yes,” the voice behind Dr. Pryce whispers. “God forbid.”

Pryce smiles to himself as Gray leaves abruptly, barely muttering an excuse under his breath. Pryce couldn’t care less who runs the company. All he needs is his lab and quiet and time. If Gray wants to take steps against the young Godfrey, so be it. That left Pryce more time on his own. Let the priest and the boy war it out. Pryce would, as always, keep his head down—focused on the miracles of science.

He watches intently as he pricks one of his plant’s leaves. His eyes widen in delight as the leaf splits, cracks, and drips a drop of brilliant red blood.

.  
.

Roman pours carefully from the tupperwear into a ceramic mug. The contents are a day and a half old and taste bitter now. His jaw aches and his nerves feel aflame as he gulps down the girl’s blood in great mouthfuls. There’s not enough, really—there never is, but it’s the most he is willing to take. Anything more would be too risky, would be dangerous. 

After a few moments, the hunger pangs recede. After a few more moments, the voices quiet. Finally, Roman breathes a sigh of relief. It’s a brief respite, but it will do.

The sun reflects off of the metal and glass of the surrounding skyline and Roman basks in the silence and the light. The serenity won’t last long—soon, the sun will start to make his skin itch and it won’t be long before the voices return. But for now, he is content. Well… mostly. A part of him knows that—despite the fact that he’s had a new, nameless woman in his bed each night of the weekend for months now, despite the fact that he is constantly surrounded by crowds at the hottest clubs, despite the fact that people want to know him and be known by him at college—he has never been more alone in his life. He has no way to change that. He only has routine and silence and survival. When he is finished draining the mug, he leaves the window and turns back to the kitchen. There, he hesitates for only a moment before picking up the tupperwear and licking it clean. Roman wonders to himself if it will always be like this...

.  
.

Peter waits at a stained kitchen table, a now nearly empty mug of tea resting before him. The house looks cheap—an old track home, worn with age. It doesn’t have the warmth of memories the way he always felt Nicolae’s trailer did. To him, this house doesn’t feel like Romani live here—at least, not his kind.

But the old man who enters the room does have the same worn and wise look that Peter remembers from childhood campfires. The man’s aura is warm and Peter relaxes slightly.

“Devlesa avilan,” the elder says in greeting. "It is God who brought you." His voice is heavy and sounds like gravel.

“Devlesa araklam tume," Peter responds. “It is with God that I found you."

The man nods, pleased with the answer. "Si'n Rom? Ande save vitsa?"

Peter shakes his head, tries not to hesitate. “I don’t have a community or tribe. My kin was an outsider. My mother and I are also—we travel.”

“Really? Your kin was pikie?”

“Yes, sir. Expelled from his community quite some time ago. He… he’s passed since.”

The older man snorts and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a silver cigarette case. He offers one to Peter—practically forcing one on him—before lighting his own. “You said you are here with your mother, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you are both welcome to our community. My sons, they are not much older than you. They can help you find a job—we have cousins in scrap metal if nothing else. It is good, honest work. You are welcome here—no need to stay out on the edge of town alone, my boy. These are not the old times. Some old ways do not have to always be followed. Prikaza and bad providence is not passed through blood—this nonsense of the kin of pikie being outsiders as well is ridiculous. Romani should stick together. No need to ask further—you should come to dinner tomorrow. Alana’s daughter is turning sixteen and there will be so much food, I’m not sure what we will do with it all! Baba Siena has been marinating lamb all day. It will be a grand Romani welcome!”

“That’s not… sir, with all due respect, I didn’t come here to ask to join your community.”

The elder is silent, the smoke billowing around his face as his expression hardens into seriousness. “I see. What did you come here to ask then?”

Peter licks his lips and mentally reaches into the heart of the wolf for comfort and strength. “I… I am a runner. I came here, out of respect, to ask your permission to run the woods on the north of town.”

The room is silent now. Peter breaths slowly, feeling the tension surrounding him. He can smell the sweat on the elder’s neck. Can hear the old man’s hand tighten on his chair’s wooden arm. “You are vârcolac.” The old man speaks this as a statement rather than a question, but Peter still nods in agreement. The elder bites out a curse under his breath and then takes a long drag off of his cigarette. His fingers shake ever so slightly. “On the full moon?”

“Actually, sir, I made the red sacrifice. I have no constraints by the moon.”

“I see. Well…” The elder stubs out his cigarette and stares intently at his hands for a moment. When he meets Peter’s gaze again, his brown eyes are sharp. “This country has not always been kind to our people. You know that, don’t you boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not far from here,” the man’s graveled voice continues, “there were strict laws saying where our people could live, what businesses they could own, what they could sell. Limitations, legalized discriminations. Do you know when those laws were lifted?” Peter shakes his head silently. “1998. My grandchildren were born into a country which had professed for hundreds of years to be the land of the free—where hard working men could have success and fortune—and yet they kept laws which essentially forbid Romani from sharing that dream. It’s been barely a decade since those laws were rescinded. There are still people who hate us. They have no cause to, but they do.”

“I know, sir.”

“Of course you know. You’re Romani. But you’re not of our people. You are right—you are an outsider. Both cursed men and dogs are unclean and cannot be accepted into a gypsie home. And yet, here you are at my table. I hope you do not think me rude for my concern, but history is not so long past. I cannot have suspicion raised against my people.”

“There will be none,” Peter insists. “I have control. I’m careful. I promise.”

“Even the most careful man can chips a glass. Your promise means little. However… I will give you my blessing to use the woods. Just know that my community is at risk by you being here.”

“Yes. I know. Sorry.”

“Do not be sorry. Be careful.” The elder hesitates. “About tomorrow’s dinner…”

“Don’t worry, uncle. I will not attend. I’ll stay away from the community, your treasures, and your women.”

The elder nods. “Thank you for understanding. If you were anything else, we would welcome you with open arms…”

“I know, sir.”

Peter bows his head slightly in thanks. He knows better than to offer to shake the elder’s hand now that he has been revealed as unclean. As a dog. As a runner. As a vârcolac.

The sun is low in the sky by the time Peter leaves. He feels the familiar sense of his other self stretching inside him, silently begging to be released, to run. Peter nods, finding solace in the comfort of the wolf. At least with it he feels a little less alone.


	2. Their Eyes

Two months have passed—so far, New York has been quiet, nice, and mostly uneventful. Lynda has found a job at a local herb and new age shop, a connection from a friend of a friend of a fellow gypsy. To Peter, she seems happy. She has become friendly with her coworkers and occasionally meets them for tea on weekends or after work.

Peter hasn't had the same luck. He's talked to auto shops and local grocery stores—he's willing to work hard, knows his way around a car, and has always been good with lifting grocery boxes and other sorts of manual labor—but every business that he visits tells him that there is no need for more help, they're all filled up, no need to hire someone else on. People are apologetic, but also guarded. Some community members seem to be wary of him because he is Romani. The Romani themselves, however, give him more obvious sideways glances and talk in hushed tones. They seem tense and cautious, sometimes even frightened of walking near him on the street. Peter is not sure he blames them, but it stings just a little.

In town, he feels more alone than ever.

The woods, however, are like nowhere else. The smells are amazing and the greenery is lush. He and the wolf both love it—his feet (paws) in the river or his hair (fur) being blown by the breeze. Sometimes, Peter has the urge to go there during the day, to shift and run and maybe never turn back into his normal form. Things just make sense in the woods. His life as a human feels empty in comparison. There's nothing for him in town, no one who seems to want to know him.

Well, except for Alice Waller. Alice is fifteen or sixteen, with dark brown hair and large hazel eyes, which she sometimes covers with purple hued contacts. She wears black bracelets and clunky boots. She doesn't quite own enough accessories—or have enough courage—to be truly gothic, but she seems to be trying to invoke the aesthetic as she wears cut-off black and grey striped knee-high socks as arm warmers and layers plain silver necklaces over an old thrift store rosary. Her best friend Samantha (who prefers to be called Sammy) is an interesting contrast to her friend. She has fiery red hair and wears yellow and pink sundresses. Peter sees them often outside the town's lone coffeeshop, Alice braiding bracelets or sketching in a journal, Sammy laughing over magazine personality quizzes or sharing celebrity gossip—the sunnier girl has an affection for tabloids, just as her gloomier friend seems to have an affection for teasing her about it.

Alice and Sammy are two of the only people in town who Peter can always count on to give him a wave and a smile. Sammy seems to like him mostly because she loves to tease Alice about her stammering and near blushing at Peter's presence. It's fairly obvious the pseudo-goth has a youthful crush on the Romani man, which flatters Peter and saddens him at the same time. Her bashful looks remind him of Christina, of white fur and teeth and blood. But he tries not to let that show on his face.

Today, Alice is wearing red and has—from the looks of it—tried to color her lipstick darker with a black eye-pencil. The result is uneven and splotchy. Sammy is chattering away about something she is reading, her arms gesturing dramatically as she tries to make a point. Alice gives a small chuckle, then startles when she sees Peter, pausing to give him a bashful wave as her cheeks blush. Sammy looks his way and grins. "Hey! Peter! Get over here!"

Peter raises an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed at how confident the girl seems that he has nowhere else to be.

"You have to settle a debate for us," Sammy continues.

"Saaaaaammy," Alice's low tone is tense and embarrassed. "I'm sure Peter doesn't care about celebrities."

"I don't know much," Peter admits, unable to keep the grin from his face, "but I'll do my best. What's the debate?"

"Okay, the topic at hand." Sammy clears her throat and rests her hand dramatically on her copy of US Weekly. "Is Roman Godfrey the male Paris Hilton? Yes or no?"

Peter's blood turns to ice and the smile falls from his face in shock. "What?"

"See," Alice groans. "I told you he wouldn't know who Roman Godfrey was. God, Sammy you're so—"

"I know who he is," Peter interrupts. "I mean, yes, sort of. We went to school together. Briefly. But how—how do you know who he is?"

"Oh. My. God," Sammy practically squeals. "You went to school with him!? When? Where? In Hemlock Grove, right? Oh my god, you lived there? I want details. Did you meet the creepy killer sister? Is Roman as cute in real life? Is he a snob? Oh God, he's a snob, isn't he?"

"Uh, no, he was… he was always trying to be nice. His sister too. She always seemed like a nice person."

Sammy sighs and shakes her head. "They always do, don't they? Every serial killer story, like, ever says that—they always seemed so nice and normal! Ugh, it gives me chills."

"It seems like, from the stories, that they teased her a lot for being different," Alice says quietly. "I can understand how she might want to get back at them. I mean, it's not right, but I can understand."

"Oh sure, sure," Sammy spurts dismissively. "But still, talk about an over-reaction!"

"How," Peter asks again, "do you know any of this? And what's that about Paris Hilton?"

Sammy flips through her magazine, clearly looking for a specific picture. "Between the murders and the guy becoming, like, the youngest, richest, and hottest CEO ever, Roman Godfrey was big news for a moment. But then it just became tabloid fun to follow him around the club scene. He's been photographed with models, singers, other people mostly known just for being famous and rich. Thus the Paris Hilton comparison."

"He's not like Paris Hilton," Alice insists. "He's probably trying to forget about all that horrible stuff that happened to him. He's had a lot of tragedy in his life. He's more like… well, Batman. Rich playboy, parents killed…"

"Why do you know anything about Batman?" Sammy interrupts.

Alice shrugs. "I like Tim Burton. I've seen all his movies."

"Wait, parents plural?" Peter turns, his chest feeling tighter by the moment. "Olivia is dead?"

"His mom?" Sammy responds. "Yeah. She was found in her house with her throat, like, torn all open. The police think maybe the sister came back and, like, murdered her mom before skipping town. It wasn't as bloody as the other murders but it was, like, still pretty gruesome apparently." Peter took a deep breath, trying to process the information in between the scattered "likes."

"You said he's been at clubs with famous people? There are no clubs around Hemlock Grove."

"Uh, no duh," Sammy laughs. "You obviously aren't facebook friends with the guy or anything. He went away to college. Princeton. But he seems to spend most of his downtime in the city. Ah, here it is!" Sammy hands the open magazine to Peter.

Peter tries not to gasp. The picture is of a group at a fashionable New York club. On the far left is a model-looking girl with too-white teeth and too-tanned skin. Her cheeks are flushed by alcohol and she is wearing a page-boy hat slightly askew. Next to her is a child actress who Peter recognizes and vaguely remembers some magazine in a grocery store having the glaring headline that the actress had been on a 'downward spiral' and arrested more than once for drunk driving and cocaine use. She is also over tanned, but her tone is more orange, like she used a fake spray-tan, and her hair is bleached an unnatural blond. Next to both of these women, Roman Godfrey looks almost unearthly. In contrast to the women's skin tones, Roman's skin is pale marble white. His clothes are rich and dark, tailored to his body but also slightly wrinkled—giving the impression that the wearer is rich enough not to care about taking care of his expensive clothes. His pink lips are turned half-upward in a smirk, but the smile does not reach his eyes. In fact, that is the most striking detail in the whole picture. Roman Godrefy's eyes.

Peter has a clear memory of Roman's eyes. They lit up when he laughed or smiled. They became round and watery when he felt hurt. Roman was always terrible at hiding his emotions—his eyes told everything. But the eyes in the photograph are not those eyes. The eyes of this Roman Godfrey are cold, like glass and stone. They look like Olivia's eyes. The sight makes Peter's heart sink and his stomach tighten.

"I… I have to go," Peter says, turning away. Sammy clears her throat and Peter realizes he is still holding the magazine, his hand clenched tight, wrinkling several pages. He mutters out an apology and gives the magazine back, ignoring the girls' confused looks following him as he makes his way home.

.

.

When one gets a summons from Bishop Gray, it is a good idea to be on one's guard. Gray is the Vatican's head of SCD, the Supernatural Control Division, and therefore the boss of exorcists and hunters alike. He has a kind exterior, but his kindness never touches his eyes. He is unwavering in his mission, determined and ruthless.

The last time Michael Chasseur had seen Bishop Gray, it was at a meeting about Clementine's death. Clementine… his poor sister. Michael winces at the memory before stealing himself as Gray comes to stand before him.

"Welcome, my son," the older man says, his voice warm yet somehow still steely. "God smiles upon you. You have a new task to serve him."

"Thank you, sir," Michael bows his head, his hand on his heart. "What would best serve the Lord?"

The Bishop nods. "There are signs of a vampire in New York. He or she is using the nightlife there for hunting."

"How many deaths?" Michael asks.

"Deaths? None definitive so far. Just early signs of trouble."

Michael frowns at the response. "Sir?"

The Bishop's eyes grow colder, darker—his face half hidden by a shadow. "Is something the matter, my child?"

Michael hesitates. "We just don't often go after vampires, sir. They are usually discreet, and if this one hasn't killed anyone…"

"Are you questioning the will of the Lord, my son?"

"No, Father!" Michael insists. "It's just…"

It's just that this doesn't feel right. This isn't a typical mission. He is used to folders containing photos of blood-soaked bodies and faces fixed forever in silent screams. As far as Michael knows, in recent history they have never acted preemptively against a creature, especially a vampire. Typically, they left vampires well enough alone, unless there were several obvious linked deaths. Vampires were frequently found in positions of strength and power—it was practical to go after the much bloodier and out of control targets, like werewolves and demons.

Bishop Gray shakes his head, as if reading Michael's thoughts. "They are all children of Satan, Michael, and must be stopped. Just because we have no clear proof of deaths, also, does not mean the monster hasn't killed." Gray places his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Steel thyself. And go with God."

"Yes, sir." Michael bows his head and takes the thin file-folder from the Bishop's hand. As he leaves, he tries to feel determined, tries to feel God's will. But all he can see in his heart is the Bishop's cold and cunning eyes.

.

.

Lynda is worried about Peter. She has been ever since Hemlock Grove.

In Pennsylvania, she hadn't felt like she needed to worry. Peter had been her little boy all grown up. Jovial, capable, independent, and kind. But then that town had torn her baby to pieces. She's still not sure what caused the most damage—Letha's death or the confrontation with the vargolf. But either way, she can't help but feel that something tore at her child's soul. He isn't the same young man he once was. His smile is sadder, his eyes distant. She catches him staring at the forest more than she would like.

He has been running every weekend. And that scares her. The transformation is rough on the human body—there is extreme pain, tearing of tendon and shifting of bone. The flesh ripping open. Jaw cracking and changing. She remembers when Peter first shifted as a child—he cried for days, asking why, never wanting it to happen again. But now he can hardly wait for it—like he's trying to escape something. Like he is more comfortable in the flesh of the wolf than he is in his own as a man.

She's tried to give him space. Tried not to argue. But every shift seems to pull him deeper out to the woods. Seems to make his eyes just a bit less human. It makes Lynda want to cry and scream. But she doesn't. Instead, she just watches.

She is making baked chicken when Peter comes home. His brow is furrowed in thought.

"Hey, baby. Everything okay?"

Peter looks over at her and then hesitates for half of a moment. "Yeah, mom. Everything's fine."

Lynda has always been able to tell when Peter is lying. It's in his eyes. There's no question that he's keeping something from her now, something worrying and preoccupying. But she lets it go. She cannot force Peter to tell her any more than she can force him to stop changing. She can only be patient and calm.

Peter is silent as she pops the chicken in the oven and sets a timer. He is silent as she pours some frozen peas in a container and places them in the microwave. He is silent as she coats the peas with salt and butter. Then he suddenly says, "I realized today that I haven't seen the city."

Lynda raises an eyebrow and looks over at her son. He isn't looking at her, is keeping his eyes fixed across the room. "Oh?" she says.

"Yeah. And it's so close. I thought maybe I'd take a bus there. Check it out. Maybe this weekend."

Now Lynda's breath catches in her throat. She knows Peter's keeping something from her, that she should be skeptical and worried. But… "That would mean you'd miss a chance to run," she reminds him.

Peter shrugs. "I know. But I've been shifting too much anyway. It's probably good to take a break. Maybe seeing the city would be good for me—get me out of the woods, you know?"

Lynda is silent, her eyes searching Peter's face. He is nervous about something, but there is a glint of excitement and anticipation in his eyes. He wants her to say yes. He wants to go, for some mysterious reason. He wants to go and be a young man in the city. Human.

"I think that's a good idea," she finally responds. Peter smiles, the nervousness fading as the excitement in his expression grows. He tries to push down a smile, but it still peaks through, lighting up his face in a way that Lynda hasn't seen for a long time.

She's not quite sure what venture she has supported. She's not quite sure what Peter is seeking in New York. But for the first time in over a year, Lynda sees her son's smile reach his eyes. It is only for a moment, but it's enough for now. It's something. It's hope.


	3. New York, New York

The whole situation smells funny. In fact, it stinks something rotten. Michael flips through the file one more time, glaring at each page as if to dare it to seem any fishier. There are no police reports. No eyewitness accounts. No indication as to where any of this information came from. Just a list of dates and club sightings—vaguely typed descriptions of likely vampire sightings. It's just about the shadiest and sparsest file Michael has ever seen. Just about.

The one describing the death of his sister. That came close.

Michael scowls, looking up from the file and rubbing his eyes. He hears birds chirping. He has been up all night and the dawn is creeping over the horizon. Even without meaning to, it seems he has started to keep a vampire's schedule. Well, so much the better for hunting one.

Michael closes the file. Tomorrow (later today, actually, dear lord it's getting brighter out), he will leave for New York. He doesn't know why Bishop Gray is keeping information from him, but he knows he must keep his faith and press forward. Without his sister, without Clementine, his faith is all he has.

.

.

Peter doesn't know what he was expecting. He didn't really have much of a plan, even as he boarded the dingy Greyhound bus. New York City was a huge place and Roman Godfrey was just one man. Finding him would be like trying to find a black cat in a coal mine.

When he had gotten off of the bus, the sights and sounds of the city had hit him like a tidal wave. It had been almost impossible to concentrate. He breathed for a moment. He took in the lights and crowds. He bought a pretzel. Eventually, he made his way to Central Park. There, the small scratch of nature calmed him again, centered him.

He took the subway. Got off to visit a library. He wrote down the name of every club Roman had been photographed at in the tabloids. There were only six, recurring and patterned. He wrote down the addresses. He went to their locations and took a deep breath, smelling.

There was the hint of a familiar scent, the memory of Roman. Faint. Almost imaginary.

"What are you doing?" Peter hears a voice laugh now. He turns to see a well-dressed man and woman eyeing him with bemusement. Peter realizes he probably looks like a crazy person, smelling around like a dog. He looks away, sheepish.

"I was just… um… I'm kind of lost." It's the only excuse he can come up with. He can't imagine that "smelling the air" would have satisfied the question.

"Okay," the man smirks, "where are you trying to go?"

"I… well, it's not exactly where. I'm actually looking for someone. Roman Godfrey. Do you know him?"

The woman half-coughs and half-laughs and looks away. Peter recognizes that lack of eye-contact, the slight blush at the top of her cheeks. He had seen it all over Hemlock Grove. "A bit," the woman confirms.

"We see him out and about," the man agrees, waving loosely at the closed clubs. "But then, so does everyone. Why?"

"I… I just moved to New York. Roman and I used to know each other in Hemlock Grove. Thought I'd take a chance, try to find him… you know…" Peter knows he sounds suspicious. The story—while mostly true—sounds fishy even to him. The two strangers exchange a look and Peter curses to himself silently, getting ready to move on and come up with a less embarrassing plan.

"He usually rotates what club he goes to," the woman finally smiles. "He never goes to the same one twice in a row."

"I think he was at 52 last weekend, so…" the man starts.

"On Friday," the woman corrects. "But he went to Fuse on Saturday."

"Ah, that's right. I think I heard Sal say he saw him there. I'd forgotten. So, yes, that means your best bets tonight are Pearl and Trinity. I'd start there."

Peter blinks for a moment, stunned. "Um… thanks."

"No problem," the man says, his voice shifting to preoccupation as he checks his phone.

"You're not going dressed like that, right?" the woman laughs. Peter hesitates, looking down at his old striped button-up and ripped jeans.

"Uh, I was planning on it. Not good?"

"Not good," the woman agrees. Her smile is flirty, but mildly disapproving. "You've got a few hours. Go make yourself presentable. Nothing less than a good name-brand. Otherwise, you'll never get in."

Peter mutters a thanks again as the pair walk away. He puts his hands in his pockets and curses. He doesn't have much money—he'll have to get some clothes the old fashioned gypsy way. But, even if he does, who knows if this is a complete waste of time? Who knows what he will do if he even finds Roman?

Who knows if Roman even wants to be 'found'?

.

.

For Roman, it's been a difficult week—a paper due for his sociology class and too much time forcing a smile and pretending to care about normalcy. He used up the last of his Tupperware blood yesterday; it had been in the fridge a day too long again and had developed a sour, almost fermented flavor.

He's on edge tonight, his neck tense. He doesn't know if it is going to be one of those evenings where he stays out until dawn and drowns his frustrations in alcohol and noise, or one of those nights when he hooks the first acceptable woman he sees and uses his gaze to force her to leave with him. He doesn't know what his tolerance is for humanity right now… it doesn't feel very high.

As he enters Trinity, the music is a roar of electronic hums and drum beats. He sees a group he vaguely recognizes in the VIP section; one is a pop star he knows casually, who buys coke from the same dealer Roman does. He heads over, gives greetings all around, orders a drink. It's routine. It's familiar.

He sits next to a woman who claims to be an up-and-coming clothing designer. She immediately puts her hand on Roman's leg.

He closes his eyes. He listens to the music. He tries to decide how much he hates this.

His drink is empty quickly. There's no server around the VIP section at the moment, so he stands up to make his way to the bar and… freezes.

He blinks, wonders if he's seeing things.

When the vision in the crowd before him doesn't change, he feels his body go numb, like a limb that has fallen asleep. This, Roman realizes, seems to be a different type of night all together.

.

.

Peter had thankfully found a thrift shop not too far out of walking distance. He stole an overpriced-for-used button-up Versace shirt, which mostly fit, and then paid for a leather cuff bracelet to avoid seeming suspicious. He knew his jeans were still not quite fashionable, but he hoped this was at least acceptable enough to get into the club.

When the bouncer hesitates at the door of Trinity, Peter's heart leaps into his throat. "I'm looking for someone," he blurts out. "A friend."

The bouncer gives him a skeptical look and then smirks. "Aren't we all?" He checks behind him, looking for a signal of some sort, and then waves Peter in.

Peter has never been to a club before. Certainly not a big city club. Heck, he hasn't stayed in one place long enough to go to many school dances.

The music makes his head hurt and the lights are blinding in some areas, while the lack of light makes other sections pitch dark. The bar is crowded, the dance floor more sparsely occupied by either serious dancers or people who seem to be more posing than dancing, just waiting for someone to notice them. The whole room smells of sweat and alcohol and anxiety. People wanting to be desired. People wanting to be loved. People afraid of death. People afraid of being alone.

Peter feels incredibly uncomfortable. He tries to look around the room, tries to wander a bit through the crowd. But the club is so full of crannies and pockets, areas for people to get lost, that he starts to feel the familiar pang of frustration and hopelessness.

Then he turns and falls into cold blue eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Roman asks. He has to yell to be heard over the music, but the tone still comes off as cold and impassive. It makes Peter almost flinch.

"I heard you might be here," Peter yells back. "I was… I was in town."

Roman is silent now, his cold eyes looking Peter up and down a moment, as if considering. Then he jerks his head sideways, signaling to the exit.

As they walked into the cooling night air, Peter watches Roman's stride. It is tense but elegant. Roman had always been graceful, but his movements now are something else—almost otherworldly. Roman walks over to a man in a black suit and gestures, handing him something. A few moments later, a sleek silver sports-car is driven up to the curb.

"Get in," Roman says flatly.

Peter raises an eyebrow. "What happened to the jag?"

Roman half-flinches as he opens the driver's side door. The pained expression breaks—just for a moment—the cold mask he's been wearing. "Would you believe I totaled it?"

"What? You loved that car!"

"Yeah, well…" the mask is back now and the temperature inside the vehicle feels like it is dropping rapidly, "…I wasn't exactly in the best mindset."

Peter bets that he knows around when that was—bets that he was sporting a pained expression and a shaved head himself around the same time.

They drive in silence for a moment before Peter finally asks, "Where are we going?"

"My place," Roman responds flatly. "I figured you didn't come all the way out here to yell over the music of some club."

"No," Peter agrees. More silence. There is ambient electronic music coming through the car's speakers. Peter looks out the window at the city lights for a while before saying, "Does this song have a fucking harpsichord in it?"

Roman hesitates for a moment. "Sounds like it."

Peter chuckles. "Seriously?"

"What's wrong with it?" Roman asks, his brow wrinkling slightly. "You hate harpsichord?"

"No, it sounds great. That's what's weird. I can't believe this is your music. Last I heard, you were a gansta' rap aficionado." Peter's voice is light and teasing. He searches Roman's marble white face. Finally, the young man smiles a bitter smile.

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I've gone through some… changes. Lately."

"I've noticed," Peter whispers. Roman nods in response.

"Yeah, well, my hearing's better. You wouldn't believe how terrible that stuff sounds with super-hearing."

Peter grins, his teeth flashing and wolfish. "I hate to break it to you, Godfrey, but people with normal hearing thought it was shit too."

Roman seems to try to flash him a glare, but a small smirk breaks through. "Fuck you, Rumancek."

For just a moment, Peter sees the sun. It flashes across Roman's face for just an instant, warm and familiar. But then the smirk fades and the coldness is back again. Roman's face shifts into its marble mask, so reminiscent of Olivia that it makes Peter's skin crawl.

The wolf is freaking out under his skin. It's growling warnings, all instincts screaming that this situation is unsafe. There's nowhere to run. There's a large predator close. Peter should bite his neck, tear at his arms, and then run.

But Peter ignores the wolf's instincts. This is Roman—the one who he set out to find. His friend at one time. Sure, he and Roman didn't always understand each other or have everything in common, but Roman was always a good person. Peter takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down and get the wolf to relax.

"We're here," Roman finally says, pulling into a garage. They're away from the noise and the lights now. It's a nice, mostly residential district, all arch-windowed lofts, condos, and town-houses. Peter follows Roman inside a white building and into an elevator. They take the lift to the top floor.

When they get to Roman's apartment, Peter can't help but gasp. Just the main room is larger than most spaces he and his mother have lived.

"Shit… nice place," Peter half-laughs.

Roman is silent. He walks over to the kitchen. Peter hears him unhook his watch and place it and what sounds like a ring in a small glass bowl. There is a rustle of cotton as he rolls up his sleeves.

Peter turns away and surveys what he can see of the loft. The lines of the room are clean and modern—metal and glass—with just a hint of an art deco aesthetic. A light from an espresso maker on the kitchen counter gives the room a blue glow, the wide windows reflecting the city lights in the distance.

"You know I found out you had moved from a teenage girl and her tabloids," Peter chuckles. "Crazy, right?"

"Not that crazy." Roman's voice is hushed and inexpressive. "It's not like we were pen-pals, Rumancek."

"Yeah…" Peter breaths. "You know, Roman, I—"

"Peter," Roman interrupts. At the sound of his name, Peter turns.

The punch to the nose is unexpected, as is the full weight of Roman coming down on top of him. The breath escapes from Peter's lungs as he's knocked back into the carpet, and he doesn't even have a moment to draw it back before Roman's hands are around his throat, Roman's fingers digging against his windpipe. Peter gasps, chokes, tries to throw Roman off. But the young man is stronger than Peter could have imagined and his eyes are practically glowing ice silver. Peter's vision blurs, starts to fade, and all he can see now is Roman's mouth, snarling and open, white fangs gleaming in the night.


	4. Revelations

Peter claws at Roman's hands, his jaw aching as he tries to pry his friend's grip from his throat. Above him, Roman's eyes are a bright glowing silver, and his teeth have morphed from his typical white, orthodontic smile into a nightmare of feline-like fangs.

"How… dare… you…" Roman's voice is dark and somehow wet. Peter is confused by the sound for a moment before he feels tiny droplets on his cheeks: Roman is crying. "How dare you show up like nothing… like…" His voice cracks, breaks. He takes a deep gulping breath and tightens his grip on Peter's throat again. "You left me. You left me alone with… you have no idea what I had to… how could you! You fucking bastard. I should kill you for… how could you just leave! I needed you!"

Peter finally pries away two of Roman's fingers, allowing him to suck in a gulping breath. "I had to leave. I couldn't—I couldn't stay in Hemlock Grove, Roman. I was grieving too, remember? I couldn't be there for you when I was—" A harsh hissing sound escapes from Roman's mouth as he clamps down on Peter's throat again.

"Oh yes, you had to leave. You gypsy fuck! I lost my cousin. I lost my sister! I needed you there! You could have stopped… you could have stopped her… stopped me… I…" The sob escapes in full force now and Roman buckles and falls, his hands slipping away from Peter's throat and instead fastening on his black shirt. Roman grips the fabric in tight fists, as if he could hold Peter in place and stop him from disappearing again. A long, loud moan emerges from the depths of Roman, and his arms and shoulders start to tremble. To Peter, it looks like Roman is practically collapsing in on himself.

The wolf is growling in Peter's head, urging him to either attack or flee. The wolf had been right, after all—Roman was dangerous. A killer. A predator.

But Peter can't explain to his wolf why he has to stay where he is. Why he has to grab Roman by the shoulders and pull him close. To whisper apologies into his hair. To let Roman cry and scream into his chest.

Roman's each word is punctuated by a guttural sob as he clings to Peter. "You… left… me… with… her… and… I… God… Peter… I…"

"It's okay," Peter whispers. He tightens his arms around Roman, bringing him even closer. He ignores that this motion brings Roman's mouth within biting distance of his throat—the wolf isn't pleased. "I'm here. I'm sorry. It's okay." He makes soft shushing noises. Roman's sobs eventually soften, his breaths becoming slower and slower until they ultimately resemble a normal state of breathing.

Finally, Roman lets out a bitter, damp laugh. "I think I got snot all over your shirt."

"That's okay," Peter says, keeping his voice hushed. "It was used, and I stole it anyway."

Roman half-laughs, another belated tear making its way down his face. "Fuck…" Roman pulls back, looking around as if to get a bearing on his surroundings. "Want a drink?"

It's Peter's turn to laugh now. "Fuck yes."

"I have beer or scotch."

"Whatever. You pick."

They both stumble to their feet, avoiding eye contact for the moment. Peter heaves a sigh, rubbing his sore throat to ease the stinging memory, as Roman fishes two dark bottles out of the fridge. The beer turns out to be some sort of Russian stout. The taste is thick and coffee-like.

"You couldn't just get a lager like anyone else?" Peter says. The joke is light and biteless. Roman smirks, acknowledging the banter as an olive branch.

"I'm a Godfrey. I'm not anyone else."

Peter tries to smile in return, but the sentence feels heavy and full of meaning. As the two young men sit on the sleek modernity of Roman's couch, Peter finds himself asking: "What happened?"

"When?" Roman responds flatly. It's not really a question, though—his eyes dart to the floor. He knows when.

"In Hemlock Grove. After… after Letha died. After I left. What happened to you?"

Roman draws in a shaky breath and it looks like the act of remembering causes an almost physical pain. "You don't really want to know, Peter. Trust me… I…"

"I do," Peter corrects. "I want to know. Tell me."

Roman meets his eyes now. The silver light from earlier has faded back to his normal eye shade of blue-grey. His gaze is questioning, searching. "I can't take it back once I tell you."

"I know," Peter agrees. "I just…" He hesitates, trying to put it into words. "…When I saw your photo in that magazine, you looked so cold. Like you were shutting everything out. It reminded me a bit of the expressions I'd seen on your mother's face and I—"

"I'm nothing like her!" The exclamation is harsh, almost violent. But there's fear there too—like Roman had yelled this truth as much to convince himself as to convince Peter. "Nothing!"

Peter stares at Roman, his eyes searching. "What happened?" he asks again.

A short half-sob and half-laugh bubbles hysterically from Roman's lips. "Everything. Shelley was gone. Letha was gone. You were gone. My whole world had just shattered—all at once. I think that's what she'd been waiting for, you know? She had me right there—in her manicured little clutches. Fucking bitch. There… there was a baby."

Peter frowns now. "What? What baby? Not… not Le—"

"No!" Roman shakes his head. "I—I don't know. Some fucking random baby. I mean, it couldn't have been hers. Her baby died, right? That's what they said. That's what the doctors said. So, this was someone else's baby. It had to be. It's the only thing that makes sense, right?"

"Sure…" Peter shakes his head, confused. "Where was the baby? And what was the baby doing there?"

"In the attic." Roman says this in almost a sing-song voice and the result sends chills down Peter's spine. Roman's expression darkens and he takes a long gulp of beer, steading himself. "She wanted me to eat it."

Peter startles. "What?"

"Yep." Roman toasts his beer to an imaginary figure in front of him. "Great mother-son bonding time, right? Infanticide. Someone should make a fucking Groupon."

"Roman… what… what did you do?"

Roman is silent for a long while, his gaze fixed on nothing. Finally he whispers, "I killed her. Olivia. My mother." Peter's breath catches in his throat as Roman's jaw trembles. "I… I just couldn't do what she wanted me to do. She wanted me to be something and, Peter, I just…"

Peter moves before he even realizes it. He gathers Roman back into his arms, pulls him close. Then Roman is clinging to his shirt again, tears soaking into his chest. The room is silent except for Roman's shaky breathing and the soft murmurs of Peter offering soothing words in Romanian as he threads his fingers through Roman's blond hair. The words may be foreign to Roman, but the comfort of the tone seems to help somewhat.

"Is that when you changed?" Peter asks now in a hushed tone.

"Well… I died. Kind of. It's hard to explain. That was the first step. I think killing her got me another part of the way. But it was…" Roman shutters and tries to pull away, the memory seeming to physically repel him.

"What?" Peter holds on tighter, refusing to let Roman go. "Roman, what happened that finished the change?"

"I think… I needed to drink human blood. Not like mine or my mother's. A normal fucking human. That seemed to be it. The final step."

Roman's tone is flat and impassive, but Peter can hear the pain and fear hidden beneath. "So… how did you get your first human blood?"

"Don't ask me that, Peter."

"But…"

"Don't fucking ask me that. I can't… you'll never look at me the same way again. I don't think I could fucking bear it. Just… just don't…"

"Roman." Peter makes his voice as firm and confident as he can. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to be there for you then. But I'm here now. And clearly this is something you need to talk about. It's hurting you. When I was growing up, Nicolae used to tell me that painful emotions were like mold on a piece of fruit. You need to get it out or else it infects everything else you have that is still good." Peter moves his hand from Roman's hair, down his neck, pausing to rest on his shoulder—not a soothing hand now, but a supporting one. "I promise, since I'm asking, that I won't judge. I can tell you regret whatever it is. I'm prepared."

A hysteric clap of laughter rushes through Roman's lips and his mouth morphs into a bitter smile. "You're prepared? Shit, Peter, I don't think you could be. But fine—you want to know? How did I get my first human blood? I didn't. I wasn't even thinking about it. I just stayed in the house. I considered killing myself. And then I realized that maybe I wouldn't need to be so proactive about it—I felt awful. Like I was starving. Like my cells were trying to eat each other. It hurt. I can't even describe how painful it was. And there were these voices in my head and they kept getting louder and louder." Roman's voice turns flatter now, and Peter recognizes this tone change as Roman's way of trying to deal with the memory's agony. "It was just us in the house now. No one was coming by. No housekeepers. No gardeners. My uncle was grieving and wouldn't leave his house. So it was just me… and the dead body… and the baby."

Peter draws a breath in sharply in realization. "Oh, Roman…"

"I don't even remember doing it!" Roman's voice shatters, a sob breaking through again. "I think if I remembered that at least it would seem less terrifying. But it was all hunger and voices. And then… the thing was just dead. Its little body was just… I killed my mother to avoid doing that! And then I did it anyway." Roman leans his forehead against his hand holding the beer bottle, the dark glass obscuring Roman's face from Peter's view. The only hint that Peter has of his expression is the tear which escapes down Roman's cheek, dripping down onto his expensive slacks. "Some hero I turned out to be, right? Matricide and infanticide, all in the same week. You probably think I'm a monster—that she was right about me. About who I am."

"No." Peter's voice is heavy and honest. He pulls Roman's hand away from his face so that he can look him in the eye, Peter's hands enveloping Roman's tightly. "I think you're brave, Roman. When I started shifting, I had Nicolae to show me the way. I had my mom and Destiny to teach me what's right, how to handle the shift and the wolf. And I still made mistakes. You were dealing with something no one had prepared you for, and you were dealing with it alone. You knew who you wanted to be—and we both know your mother would have crushed that. You did the best you could. She set it up so you wouldn't have a choice."

Roman winces, sniffles, and nods. "I'm doing well now, you know. I used a bunch of books I found in my mom's collection to separate fact from fiction, figure out how I could survive without hurting anyone. I haven't killed anyone, Peter. I promise—not since that night. I'm trying. I really want to be good—at least to not be evil, you know? But the voices and the hunger. God, it's so hard. I just don't…"

Roman's hands are woven with Peter's now, fingers gripping palms and wrists. Peter leans in closer, resting his head against Roman's collarbone. "I told you. You're brave. Just by trying to be a good person. I don't hate you, Roman. I promise—I don't." Peter nuzzles against the side of Roman's neck like a puppy. Roman half-chuckles, the sound releasing the final wave of emotion from his story. "I'm sorry. I wasn't there. I didn't know how to be there for you—but you're right. You needed someone. I should have—"

"I didn't need someone: I needed you," Roman corrects. The words are said with such quiet surety that it causes Peter to sigh, nodding.

"Like I said. I'm here now."

As if to prove his point, Peter leans forward and presses his forehead to Roman's. The gesture turns into a second nuzzle, the wolf still growling warnings in the back of his mind. The kiss that follows is unplanned but it feels natural. It starts chaste, then grows in intensity. Roman moans into his mouth, intertwining their breaths. For Peter, then, reality shatters—for a moment, the whole world is nothing but mouth and skin and tongue. For a moment, the wolf is completely lost.


	5. Conjoined

Peter's tongue hesitantly slips into Roman's mouth. A moan follows, and Roman isn't entirely sure which one of them the sound came from. He tangles his hand in Peter's wavy hair, his fingers twisting in the curls, pulling Peter's face closer against his. His whole body is electric, wanting. Somewhere, a few inches above his stomach, the hunger that he lives with daily blossoms, blooms, and seems to send out tendrils. Roman can almost feel it—the hunger—reaching out, wanting Peter. Wanting to feed, to taste, to consume. To pull everything away from the werewolf. To drain him dry.

Roman gasps, pushing Peter away forcefully. Within a blink, Roman is on the other side of the room. Peter looks around, momentarily confused at the swiftness of the motion and the new emptiness of his arms. When his eyes finally settle on Roman, the gypsy's eyes are dazed and questioning.

"Peter… stay right there. Stay away from me." Roman's voice cracks slightly.

"Why?" Peter frowns. He stands up and starts to take a step forward, toward Roman.

"Just stay there! Jesus, I don't…" Roman takes a deep, shaky breath. The hunger is still throbbing in his guts.

"Roman, what is it? It seemed like you were okay. With the kiss, I mean." The expression on Peter's face is that of a confused and rejected puppy. It's so sweet that it practically makes Roman's teeth hurt.

"Okay? Shit, Peter, I've wanted to kiss you like forever," Roman half-chuckles. The tone of his words sound bitter to his own ears, and he can't imagine how they sound to Peter.

The Romani's frown deepens, his brow furrowing. "Then… what's the problem?"

Roman feels a harsh chuckle escape his lips. "Peter, you need to understand something about me. I don't want to manipulate you, and I don't want to hurt you."

"Okay," Peter agrees warily. "That's good."

"But I'm not sure I can help myself. I don't control it—" Roman swallows, his mouth dry. He's never talked about this with anyone before. Well, anyone other than Shelly. She had caught him in a contemplative mood one day when he was a high school sophomore. The senior captain of the cheerleading team had practically thrown herself at him during study hall, and that was only a day or two after the daughter of a family friend who they had been visiting made some rather forward propositions, her voice hot and wanting in his ear. In many ways, it was a teenager's ultimate wish: to be sought after, to be desired. But it was confusing too. It was Shelly who first suggested that the cause might be something supernatural. "Like my light," her computer generated voice had chirped. She had theories: maybe they were faeries. Maybe the world was changing and they were a new species. Maybe a magic spirit was watching out for them. Roman had smiled and felt comforted and loved. Shelly had always been his anchor, the one person who truly cared for him and who he could talk to about anything. Now, though… Shelly is gone. And Roman's not sure he knows how to talk about this with anyone else.

"Roman?"

Peter's voice breaks through his thoughts. He shakes his head. "I don't mean to manipulate people, Peter. I don't. It just happens. It's like pheromones or something. I've heard that some insects are like that—they put out a chemical which triggers a social response or a 'calling' to a potential mate. It causes arousal and desire. I think I might do that—trigger something in people. Like the fact that I can force people to do things for me. It also makes them want to have sex. It's been this way since I was an adolescent. I don't try to make people want me—I've never had to. It just happens. I read in one of my mother's books that we" he gestures at his chest, not wanting to say the word 'vampire' out loud, "feed on people's energy too, not just blood. I think it's like an evolutionary thing. That's how we catch our prey: we make people want to fuck us. And it doesn't usually bother me, Peter. Heck, it makes my life a lot easier! But…" Roman's words catch in his throat and he has to lower his eyes. He doesn't want to see Peter's face right now. "…I really like you, Peter. You're different. I don't want to make you do something you don't want to."

Peter is silent for a moment. "Is that it?"

Roman frowns and looks up again. "What?"

Peter shrugs, his expression calm and flippant. "I already knew that about Upir. Destiny used to tell me stories. That's actually how I figured out what you were to begin with. Given that I'd only been attracted to girls when I first met you, it didn't take me long to figure out that you were like a walking Viagra. Which made me think: that guy's probably Upir. You were interesting and I wanted to get to know you. Think about it, though, Roman. The entire time we were in Hemlock Grove, we spent a lot of time together in private, small spaces. And we never once kissed. Sure, you make people want you, but unless you willingly force them with your eye-hypnotism-thing, you don't make them do anything. You also didn't make me come find you in New York. I wanted to do that, knowing who and what you are, remember? So, you're not manipulating me. I made a choice."

Roman's head is reeling slightly. The hunger is battling something in his stomach that feels suspiciously like… hope? It is a strange sensation—one Roman hadn't felt in ages.

"I still don't want to hurt you," Roman murmurs, his voice strained with hesitance. "I drain energy, and lately I've mostly had sex only with people I've fed on. If I lose control…"

"Then I can handle myself," Peter calmly explains. "First of all, I doubt you drain much energy. There were a bunch of girls at Hemlock Grove—who I have absolutely no doubt you slept with—and they were all walking around just fine afterwards. And secondly, I really doubt that you'll want to drink my blood. According to Destiny's stories, I'm pretty sure Upir don't like lycanthrope blood. It tastes bad, or smells bad, or both. And lastly, I trust you Roman, but if you do something that I don't want you to, and you don't listen when I say 'stop,' then I have a mean right cross. I used to box with a friend of Nicolae's when I was a kid."

Peter grins, his white teeth flashing as if to insist the comment is half-meant as a joke, even though it clearly isn't. The knowledge actually makes Roman feel a bit better, the pain in his stomach slightly subsiding. Peter is a werewolf. Roman had seen him hold his own in a fight. Maybe… just maybe…

Peter continues, his cheeks flushed with half-sheepishness. "I just wanted to let you know that I know what I'm dealing with and I'm okay with this, Roman. But I don't want to seem like I'm pressuring you. If you don't want to do this, I completely underst—"

Peter's sentence is cut off as Roman pushes himself across the room and locks his mouth onto Peter's once again.

.

.

The sensation hits Peter like a brick wall of arousal. The difference between Roman on the other side of the room and Roman pressed against him is shocking. He wasn't lying—he knows the choice he's making and doesn't feel coerced by Roman's almost tingling amount of 'sex god' energy. But now that Roman's mouth is on his again, his whole body feels hot and aching. His head is swimming and he feels like he'd agree to almost anything just to as long as Roman would keep kissing him, keep touching him.

'Destiny would freak,' Peter thinks. He's pretty sure that those stories were told to him to understand the wolf's natural enemy, to keep him safe. And here he is, letting an Upir shove his tongue into his mouth, letting him slip his hands up under Peter's shirt and rake fingers down his back. No—not letting 'an Upir.' Letting Roman.

Peter lets out a noise that sounds a lot like a wolf's growl and pulls Roman closer, hands fisting his expensive shirt and smooth blond hair. Roman gives as good as he gets, tongue licking, mouth gasping, one hand rounding Peter's ass. Finally, Roman pulls back, panting. Peter notices that his eyes are tinged silver again, dangerous and other-worldly.

Peter barely has time to process that silver light as Roman leans close and whispers in his ear, "Let me suck you. I'll make you feel so good…"

Peter's mouth is dry as he nods slowly. Roman had only half waited for an answer anyway, already unbuckling Peter's jeans with thin, deft fingers. The apartment air is cool on Peter's skin as Roman slides down his jeans, taking a moment to grope Peter's ass again through his thin cotton underwear. Peter momentarily curses himself, wishing he'd worn something more interesting and sexy than old white boxer-briefs, but Roman doesn't seem to care in the slightest, slipping those down to Peter's ankles too, his mouth creating a trail of light sucks and kisses down Peter's thigh, a light bite to the inside of his knee.

Another silver-lit flash of an upward glance is all the warning Peter gets before Roman runs his tongue swiftly along the length of him and then engulfs him whole.

Peter has received a handful of blowjobs in his life. A teenage niece of a friend of Nicolae's, a girl he had gotten drunk with in the art room of his old high school before Hemlock Grove, and of course Letha. But, as Peter muffles a yell with the back of his hand, he can safely say that none of them had felt like this. Roman has clearly done this before; he drinks him in deep, his throat open and accepting, his mouth wet. Then Roman starts doing something inconceivable with his tongue, and Peter is almost embarrassed by the sounds he makes in reply.

It feels like time is lost. There's just the feel and sound of Roman's mouth and Peter's panting breaths. Then Peter hears the sound of a zipper, looks down to see Roman touching himself, his cock glistening with pre-cum while his red lips are still wrapped around Peter. The sight is ultimately more than he can stand.

"Oh god, Roman, I'm…" Peter tries to pull away, but Roman's free hand clamps down firmly on his hip, refusing to allow a retreat. And then Peter is coming, the feeling hot, white and pulsing. Peter can feel Roman swallowing with big greedy gulps. It causes Peter to whimper like a puppy, his legs trembling and nearly giving out beneath him.

When Roman pulls back, his lips raw and red, Peter half-collapses to the floor, pulling Roman to him. Peter can taste himself, musky and salty, in Roman's kiss.

Peter doesn't quite know what to do next—has never even considered how to give a blow job to another guy before. Uncertain in his skill, he falls back on what he knows he can do well. He reaches down, his calloused hand wrapping around Roman's erection. Roman gasps into his mouth as he pumps, their hands working together—pulling, tightening, firm. The speed increases slightly and soon Roman shutters against him, hot cum spilling over both of their hands.

"Shit," Roman half-chuckles.

"Yeah," Peter breathes in response, his mouth an exhausted grin.

"I should get a towel."

"Uh, yeah, that'd be helpful."

The air feels colder as Roman pulls away. Peter feels dizzy, worn out. Roman's face has a newly healthy flush, however, and looks more like his former self from Hemlock Grove. 'He looks more alive,' Peter realizes. He wonders if Roman had fed on his energy during sex, then grasps that he must have and that—from what Roman said—he probably couldn't even help it.

Peter closes his eyes for a moment, then starts as he realizes that Roman is shaking his shoulder. "You don't want to fall asleep here, especially with cum all over your hand, Rumancek." Roman's voice is teasing and warm. Peter nods, only half-awake, as he towels off his hand. He lets himself be led to the bathroom to wash off and tries not to think about what it means that Roman keeps an entire pack of new, spare toothbrushes in his cabinet. They undress, Roman practically pulling him to bed. Peter feels himself drifting, is almost asleep when his head hits Roman's pillow.

"Get some sleep. You need a recharge," Roman whispers against his ear. Peter feels his friend pressed against his back, one arm crossed possessively across his chest. Peter presses back against Roman in response, snuggling closer. He hears Roman sigh in his ear.

"Peter…?" Roman whispers. Peter murmurs a response, though not a fully coherent one. The bedroom is silent for a moment before Roman finally says, "I'm glad you found me."

Peter nods, a silent agreement, the wolf calm and sated inside him, and then falls into sleep.


	6. First Times

Peter used to dream of normal things. Showing up to school in his underwear. Forgetting about a test in Math class. Conversations with his mother. Human things. But ever since the ritual he hasn't been able to separate the wolf from his subconscious. Which is why now he is dreaming of smells and trees and animal fur. The wolf is closest when he is asleep and, when he wakes, the wolf's instincts usually kick in first. Right now, for example, the wolf is practically nudging him out of bed to chase a familiar smell:  _bacon_.

Peter opens his eyes and takes a moment to gaze at the empty bedroom. Like the rest of Roman's apartment, it could be a room out of a catalogue—smooth modern lines, clean and sparse. To Peter, it looks like a room that a rich young adult 'should' have, but he doesn't see Roman's personality anywhere. Then again, Peter supposes, Roman rarely shows his personality outside of his name and wealth anyway. He keeps it held close, only letting it out in small doses of private smirks and laughter.

The wolf not-so-calmly reminds Peter of the bacon. Peter acquiesces, following the scent into Roman's kitchen. The light there is bright and near blinding, the glass windows drinking in the sun and spreading it across the apartment.

"I see you don't burst into flames," Peter jokes, leaning up against the kitchen counter. He wonders for a moment if he should be self-conscious by still being in his underwear while Roman looks showered and dressed for the day, the scent of herbal and mint shampoo drifting delicately through the heavy scent of meat and grease.

"It would make it awfully hard to go to college if I did," Roman smirks. "Thankfully that's just an old tale. I could see how it started, though—hunting is easier at night, and I do get more exhausted during the day. I do think we're supposed to be nocturnal 'creatures.' But thankfully that means I  _can_  work on my tan."

"You mean your burn, you lily-white  _gadjo_."

Roman shrugs. "Okay, so I'm melanin challenged. Can't say I'm not gorgeous just the way I am though." Roman half-purses his lips and poses like a fashion model with his spatula. Peter laughs.

"I would never say that." As he steals a kiss, Peter tastes mouthwash and coffee, and a deeper taste that he has already begun to identify as distinctly Roman. "By the way? Bacon? You are so completely my hero."

Roman chuckles. "Yeah, thought you might like that, you carnivore. Here—have at it." Roman dishes the final pieces onto the plate, which Peter wolfs down hungrily, followed by a heaping plate of eggs cooked in the bacon fat that Roman puts down in front of him a few moments later. "That was amazing. Seriously," Peter sighs, resisting a serious urge to lick his plate.

Roman smirks from across the kitchen counter, sipping on his coffee near-gloatingly. "Breakfast is the one kind of cooking I can do. I've gotten a decent amount of practice at it."

Peter tries to ignore the pang of jealousy in his stomach at the image of a revolving door of beautiful girls, probably sitting at this same spot after an orgasmic night with the young Godfrey heir, eating their own plate of eggs. Peter imagines perhaps one of the girls blushing and insisting that bacon wasn't on her diet, can she have half a grapefruit please. Peter wants to growl and bear his teeth at the imaginary girl. The wolf helpfully suggests that Peter should mark Roman with his scent to keep other mates away. The thought makes Peter snort in half-surprised laughter.

Roman raises an eyebrow. "Something funny, Rumancek?"

Peter shakes his head. "Kind of hard to explain."

"Alright, weirdo. Well, since I embarrassed myself last night with my emotional, slobbering life story, it's only fair to put you on the hot seat now—how have you been?"

Peter shrugs one shoulder and pushes a stray speck of bacon fat around with his fork. "Fine."

"Yeah," Roman snorts, "I call bullshit. Sorry, man, but someone who is 'fine' does not travel to an 8.3 million person populated city—that he's never been to, mind you—to try and find an old friend who he knew for, like, half of a school year because said friend looked 'kind of sad' in a magazine photograph. That's something a crazy person would do. You going crazy, Peter?"

Peter is silent for a moment, wondering how honest he should be. He trusts Roman, but he's not sure if he'll exactly understand. He's worried that Roman will look at him with the same expression that Lydia gets when he tries to explain the way he's been feeling—a look that mixes pain and pity and that breaks Peter's heart.

"I'm not sure I'd say crazy," Peter finally says, "but things have been… different."

"Yeah?" Roman asks, setting down his coffee cup and leaning in closer. "How so?"

Peter sighs. "When I was young, it was never  _easy_  to shift, but it was simple. I was a boy—a human boy—and then every month or so, for one night, something else would take over. Nicolae used to say that we were caretakers or guardians, humans who were connected with nature in this intimate way. That we were special for having the wolf visit us." Peter touches his chest, the memory of Nicholae's words living in his hands. "And that made sense to me. I was special and different, but I was always human—the wolf just borrowed my body. When the wolf was close, I could feel him. The day before a shift, I'd get hungrier, smell things more intensely, be a bit more aggressive and instinctual. But it was just the day before the turn. Then the wolf would go away and I would be alone again. Just a human. Then Hemlock Grove happened… and the ritual…" Peter hesitates.

"What happened, Peter?" Roman coaxes.

"I'm not sure I know how to explain this," Peter admits, "but I feel like Nicolae was wrong. The wolf doesn't just show up before the full moon. It's always there, just sleeping. But now my wolf is always awake. And I don't feel the way I did before. I… I don't feel human. I'm always me, but I'm also always the wolf. And sometimes I can tell the difference, but sometimes I can't. And I always feel like I'm on the verge of a turn. I'm impatient a lot, hungry, and my sense of smell is fucking incredible. I feel this gnawing in my head—the wolf wants to run, to hunt, to dig his paws in the dirt, and to go smell everything. It wants to be free. But I need to get a job, and go to the grocery store, and fill up my mom's car with gas. Maybe I am kind of going crazy because sometimes… sometimes I turn and I don't want to come back." Peter sighs, wincing. "I told my mom that and she freaked. But I was just trying to be honest—there are times when I feel like I could live happier as the wolf. I mean, what does humanity really have for me to look forward to?"

Roman is silent a moment. Then he sighs, "Shit, Rumancek." He sets down his coffee cup and comes to stand in front of Peter. "What does humanity have to offer? Maybe fuck all. But I for one like that cute little human ass of yours."

Peter can't hold back a laugh at that and finds himself strangely comforted by the statement. And even more so by the following kiss. And then the next kiss. And then the next. And then it doesn't take long for Roman's hand to slip into his underwear and wrap cool fingers around his aching cock. Soon, Peter is gasping into Roman's mouth and thrusting into his grip, murmuring thanks and 'don't stop's until he is coming hard in Roman's hand.

Roman steps back, smirking that wicked smirk of his, and brings his wet fingers up to his mouth to lick them clean. Peter gulps at the image. "You taste like bacon," the Upir jokes.

"Do not," Peter snickers in response.

"How do you know? I could have super-vampire-taste-buds." Roman smirks as Peter cracks up. "You better go get cleaned up, Rumancek. That is if you want to do anything at all today. Otherwise, the only part of New York you'll see is the inside of that bedroom."

While that doesn't sound like exactly torture, Peter matches Roman's smirk and catches the bait: "Are you offering to take me sightseeing?"

Roman half-shrugs, the grin on his face never dropping. "I'm saying I have an errand to run, and if in the process of getting to and from said errand we happen to pass every obnoxious tourist trap and landmark you want to see, then so be it."

Peter laughs at the coy reply. "Well, I guess I better go take a shower then, loverboy." As he walks to the bathroom, Peter touches his lips with his hand, realizing amazedly that he hasn't smiled this much in a long time.

.

.

' _This is wrong… this is all wrong_ ,' Michael thinks as he turns his pocket map again, trying to align the directions with the streets in a sensical way. He has been on the hunt for weeks now, and there has been no signs of strange deaths, no especially sadistic cases making their way through the NYPD. Vampire murders are often a special breed of perverse viciousness; part of the  _Succubae_   _Paramae_  family, vampires feed off of energy—lust, pleasure, pain, fear. The more emotions that accompany their blood feeding, the better. This is why vampires of history have often surrounded figures like Ivan Vasilyevich, the Marquis de Sade, and Nazi torturers.

But Michael has seen no sign of such a vampire, not where the Bishop has pointed him. If there is a vampire here, it is possible he might wait long periods between kills; it is a rare choice for a vampire, but certainly possible. The creature would still need to feed on blood—though not necessarily human.

Which is how Michael has arrived in New York's Koreatown, crowds of Korean-speaking shoppers and hipsters on the market for cheap fruit platters swarming around him, creating a disorientation that the trickster devil Mephistopheles would marvel at.

He finally finds the deli he is looking for tucked next to a cell-phone repair shop, the store's sign obscured by an apartment fire escape. Michael sighs, relieved, and starts to walk inside, only to nearly run smack into two young men. "Uh, sorry, excuse me," one laughs sheepishly, his wavy brown hair flopping in front of his face. His companion just gives a near-apologetic half-smirk and coolly readjusts his bag of groceries without a word. Michael mumbles something unintelligible in response and presses on. Over his shoulder he briefly hears the brown-haired man mutter, "Geeze, someone's in a hurry."

"It's New York. You get used to it," the other replies, which makes Michael feel like he's already been on this mission too long if he's getting confused for a native New Yorker.

He makes his way past bottles of kimchi and pickled ginger, until he finds the owner of the deli—and old man with a face almost inconceivably wrinkled—behind a counter containing pig's feet, chicken heads, and other oddities.

"An nyoung ha seh yo," Michael greets in accented Korean. The man raises an eyebrow and shuffles over to him. "I want to ask about your pig's blood."

.

.

"Pig's blood?" Peter asks. Roman shrugs.

"It's better than nothing. I usually, uh, 'go out' on Saturday nights. Not that I'm complaining about the change of pace—but I'm starting to get hungry."

"And you can survive on that?" Peter nods at the Korean market bag in Roman's arms. It had been their last stop of the afternoon, after visiting Times Square, the West Village, two different pizzerias and a hot dog stand (Peter notably ate at all of them, though Roman wouldn't touch a thing), and Bergdorf Goodman (where Roman dared Peter to steal something, but Peter chickened out with the heavy eyes of security on them). Roman looks over at Peter in the sunset light now, seeing the werewolf grinning from ear to ear. 'If he had a tail, it would probably be wagging,' Roman thinks.

He takes a second to nudge Peter playfully with his shoulder before responding. "Briefly. It's not exactly great—but it'll get me by for a week. The horror stories I've read about in my mother's books are enough to keep me from trying it all the time, though: vampires going mad, slaughtering whole towns after denying themselves human energy." Roman pretends he doesn't notice the slight shudder that runs up Peter's spine.

They take the subway back to Roman's apartment—Peter had insisted on not taking the car—and Roman can practically feel the heat and tension radiating from both of their bodies. Hesitation. Want. Anticipation. And something else nearly mournful. They travel in near silence until they reach the elevator leading up to the loft. Roman grits his teeth until they hurt, then he finally speaks, breaking the quiet: "I have to head back to Princeton in the morning."

Peter takes a moment to flash a half-pained smirk. "I figured. I have to get back home too. Though—I've been meaning to ask—since when were you smart enough to get into Princeton, Godfrey?"

Roman snorts. "Since always. I had stellar grades in high school, I'll have you know. I didn't always just run around with you smoking cigarettes and trying to solve murder cases."

"I literally never saw you crack open a book," Peter counters.

"It was my senior year. I was coasting… and I may have used my eyes to get a few teachers to give me a bunch of test answers so I  _could_  coast."

"I knew it!" Peter gives a small punch to the air in success. "You little sneak. And fuck you very much for not sharing that shit."

Roman grins, but as the distraction fades so does some of the mirth. "So… when will I see you again?"

Peter's grin falters now too. "I don't know. I can try to save up for another bus ticket, but I'm pretty broke. And next weekend's the full moon, so I can't travel then—but I'll come back as soon as I can, okay?"

"I will buy you a whole shoebox-worth of bus tickets if it gets you here faster," Roman sighs. Peter is silent.

Roman can feel Peter's eyes on him as he opens the door and walks into the kitchen, pausing to pour some of the pig's blood into a mug before placing the rest in the fridge. It seems he watches even closer as Roman gulps some of it down as if he has been starving all day. Which, to be fair, he kind of has.

"What does that even taste like?" Peter asks. Roman just shrugs and hands Peter the mug. He hesitates and then swipes a little blood on his finger, sticking his tongue out to taste it. Then Peter chuckles, "Oh, okay, the wolf is reminding me that it was stupid to ask. I've tasted this before. We've eaten rabbits, after all—the wolf and me."

"It talks to you?" Roman asks, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"Not so much talks as 'thinks at.' It's mostly instincts, smells, and the like."

"Does the wolf tell you anything about me?"

Peter visibly hesitates. "Yes… he's wary of you. He's afraid I'm putting myself in a vulnerable position."

Roman nods. "Well, I'm glad someone's looking out for you, at least."

Peter smiles a sad sort of smile. "Not that the wolf's worries are going to stop me from doing this…" The kiss is firm and comforting. Roman wants to melt into It, so he does, pulling Peter to him. The script is becoming familiar now: where their hands wander, how their mouths fit together.

Peter half-growls into Roman's mouth and the pace starts to become more frantic, kisses turning into near bites, hands slipping under clothing. Roman undoes Peter's jeans and starts to slide to his knees when Peter puts a hand on his shoulder. "Roman, wait…"

Roman freezes, frowning. "What?"

Peter licks his lips, his eyes glazed with lust. "I want you to fuck me."

Roman's mouth gapes open for a moment before he asks: "Have you ever—?"

"No."

Roman hesitates. "Are you sure? I mean, it can hurt—"

"More than my eyeballs being pushed out of my head? I turn into a wolf almost every weekend, Godfrey. You've seen it. 'I wouldn't notice if a bus hit me,' remember? I think I can handle it."

"Well, shit." Roman half-laughs. "If you're completely sure—"

"I am," Peter says. He dips his head and bites Roman beneath his right ear, hard. "Fuck me."

Roman shudders in reply. Though he usually sleeps with women, he has fucked a number of men—an occupational hazard of being irresistible—but he never remembers being nervous about it before. But now his fingers are slightly trembling and butterflies are whirling in his stomach. But he doesn't want to show Peter that, so he puts on his best 'sex god, at your service' grin and pulls Peter to him again.

They stumble to the bedroom, panting and hearts pounding. As they strip, Roman becomes increasingly aware that, despite yesterday's frenzied activities, he hasn't actually seen Peter fully naked since he watched him shift into the wolf back in Hemlock Grove. Now, he allows himself a clear look.

Despite werewolf stereotypes, Peter isn't overly hairy, but Roman does eye a light patch which dusts his chest as well as nicely grabbable underarm hair. Peter's stomach and thighs—however—are pale and smooth, something Roman verifies with his tongue and teeth as he mouths his way down Peter's body. Peter's hand rests on the nape of Roman's neck, softening and tightening in rhythm with Roman's licks and sucks across his skin.

"You're teasing me," Peter growls.

"Maybe just a bit," Roman finally admits. Peter yanks him to his feet and kisses him hungrily, breaking the last of Roman's patience and resolve to take this slow. A whirl of movement and they're on the bed, Roman fumbling in his nightstand drawer for lubricant.

He starts out gentle, sucking a mark into Peter's inner thigh as he carefully presses a lube-covered finger into him—stretching, searching. Then a cautious second finger as he mouths Peter's erection, breathing hotly on the sensitive skin.

"Hurry the fuck up, Godfrey! I'm not gonna' break."

Roman shoots an annoyed glance at his demanding partner. Rising to the bait, he slips his fingers out of Peter's heat and slathers some lubricant on his dick, barely giving the werewolf a moment of warning before slamming inside him up to the hilt. For a moment, Roman regrets the decision as Peter's face wrinkles in pain and a loud gasp escapes his lips. He's about to apologize when Peter lets out an animalistic growl and pushes back in equal fervor.

The hunger releases in Roman's stomach, silver tendrils reaching throughout him, and is more than satisfied with the energy it finds. Roman pumps into Peter eagerly, and is welcomed with a matching amount of enthusiasm. Their pace quickens, thrusts become rougher. Roman feels like a creature possessed as Peter bucks beneath him, hands fisted so tightly in the sheets that he is pulling them upward, leaving half the mattress bare. The noises Peter makes are just about driving Roman crazy—a mixture of whimpers and gasps and growls—until the Romani boy lets out a ferocious howl and comes forcefully in Roman's hand. It's enough for Roman to follow suit, gasping into the hollow of Peter's shoulder, his lips slipping a bit on slick sweat. As they collapse together, Roman notices Peter glancing at his own hands, as if concerned that he had started a wolf shift in all of this animalistic drive. Roman chuckles softly and kisses the side of Peter's damp hair.

"God, sorry, you are going to be majorly sore tomorrow. That wasn't exactly a gentle first time—at all."

Peter tries to half-shrug a shoulder as he collapses back onto the bed. "No problem. I literally asked for it." The werewolf lets out a giant yawn, and Roman can't help but imagine a wild animal licking its chops after a satisfying meal. "I'm glad we did this."

"Yeah," Roman agrees. He buries his face in Peter's hair and breathes him in deeply. After a few moments of silence, Roman hears himself saying softly: "Promise me that you'll come back to me. Promise."

He can feel Peter nod and two warm arms wrap around his shoulders. "I promise, Roman."

"Good," the Godfrey heir whispers. "I was really tired of being alone."

Peter holds him tighter as the faint light of sunset peaks through the bedroom blinds. Peter finally murmurs. "Me too."


	7. Discoveries

Roman gasps against Peter's shoulder and tries to thrust back, urging him to go faster. "Oh god, Peter, that's… Nss… so… " The werewolf just grins against Roman's pale skin and keeps his slow and steady rhythm. Roman keens, moans, is on the verge of begging and it's driving Peter crazy.

It's the third time he's made it back to New York now. Each time, the handful of weekends in between the visits feel like eons. Running in the woods helps, but Peter has actually found that shifting is starting to not feel like enough—like he needs Roman with a desperate aching—and the wolf seems to agree. It has warmed to Roman, identified him as their mate. Which is why he and his wolf feel so conflicted today—the day before a full moon—on having to go back, to leave this lovely creature prematurely. They don't get a full weekend this time, just a night and a few hours before Peter has to rush home, so they are determined to make ever second count. Now, with the morning light streaking through Roman's blinds and Roman's moans getting louder as Peter thrusts deeper inside him, Peter is happy.

"Fuck, I can't… argh, Peter, come on!" Roman's eyes have shifted into that haunting shade of silver now and his gaze is desperate. Peter gasps as Roman tightens around him, hooks his heels behind Peter's back in an attempt to pull him into a more frantic pace. "Come on… Please."

It's the final word that breaks the dam. Peter captures Roman's mouth with his as he thrusts forward. Soon, his own moans and Roman's are merged, indistinguishable. Peter shifts and leans back a bit, giving himself a little more leverage against the bed, as well as his gorgeous upir more room to reach down and wrap his long white fingers around his own cock.

"Peter, I… I… have to…" Peter frowns as Roman shakes his head, unable to finish his sentence. Peter is about to ask what Roman is trying to say when he sees his lover's white fangs sprout, his eyes now almost entirely ablaze in silver. Then Roman brings his hand, the one not currently occupied with jacking himself off, up to his mouth and bites.

Peter watches transfixed as Roman groans against his own wrist, a trickle of red escaping and running down the side of his arm. Then Roman is coming, his mouth still sucking frantically at his own hand. When Roman pulls his wrist away, his mouth is streaked with red, like lipstick gone array. It is too much for Peter to bear and he's coming now, kissing Roman deeply as he does. The kiss is hot and tastes like copper and night.

A few moments later, their panting quiets and the room seems almost silent again, except for the city noises outside. "Okay," Peter half-chuckles now, "that was the hottest thing kind of ever." Roman murmurs an agreement into his shoulder, but Peter knows that Roman didn't see the same thing he saw. For Peter, he's pretty sure that the sight of Roman, head tossed back in pleasure, biting himself while being fucked, will be burned into his brain always. He trails a string of kisses across Roman's shoulder, each one a reminder of the truth: "I have to get ready to leave. My bus is in an hour."

Roman half-groans. "Don't say that."

"But it's true."

"Jesus, Rumancek. The moon doesn't come out until night. That's the thing about moons. Why do you have to go back now?"

Peter sighs. They've already been over this. "My mom worries. No close calls, no chances. And we always eat an early dinner together before the change. It's important."

"I know," Roman grumbles. He turns to stare at Peter. His eyes are back to their cool blue, still haunting but far less illuminated. "You know, I really liked being able to see you shift back in the Grove. Especially that night in my attic when you changed back. It was so fucking gorgeous."

Peter finds himself blushing, feeling exposed. Things feel strange, almost tingly. "I… I have to get ready."

.

.

Michael rubs his eyes and stares at the security photos in front of him. Two months—he's been on the 'Vampire of New York City' case for about two months and has had almost nothing to show for it. From the description of the man at the Korean market, he has a sense that he was looking for a Caucasian male, "rich looking," pale, blond hair, medium height. Which does nothing to narrow down his possibilities—the description fits a good percentage of the New York high-end club scene, which is where the Bishop had originally told him to look. And there are still no grisly murders, no up-ticks in missing persons.

Every cell in Michael's body tells him that the Bishop has ulterior motives for this hunt. But what?

Frowning, he pushes away the photos and pulls out his laptop. He googles the Bishop's name, unsure at exactly what it is he's looking for—until he finds it.

Godfrey Industries. The Bishop has been on the board for about a year, representing a company which Michael knows to be a shell for the Vatican. And that company has a near-controlling interest in Godfrey Industries. Near but not complete, because the final controlling share is still owned by the young heir. Who is a Caucasian male. And "rich looking." And pale—quite pale in fact. With blond hair. And a medium height.

Michael curses under his breath and scans the security photos again. Yes, there—there is the young Godfrey at the club his file had noted. And there again, near the Korean market. He flips through his file with new eyes, a sense of dread pulsing through his veins.

The vampire is Roman Godfrey. He is of sure of this as he has ever been sure of anything. And he has no bloody idea what to do about it…

.

.

Peter's head is swimming and he's not entirely sure why. Maybe it's because he hasn't had a chance to eat anything today—all he's had is a cheap coffee from a stand next to the bus station. Whatever the reason, it seems to be doing funny things with his vision. As the greyhound bus idles at the station, Peter finds himself transfixed by water droplets on the door, each one shining like a small jewel. It takes the bus driver's harsh "Hey, man, you getting on the bus or not?" to snap him out of it. The bus ride home is the same way—the landscape whirring by becomes fractals, colorful swirls and blurs. Peter finds himself so pulled into them that the trip seems like it has barely started even as the bus is pulling into his home station, passengers shuffling their bags off of the bus.

Peter rubs his eyes and shakes his head to clear it. He needs a burger or something—some sort of red meat sounds good right now. He shifts his backpack on his shoulder and turns to make the long walk to his house when he hears a familiar car horn and a shout of, "Hey, cuz!"

"Destiny?" His cousin is leaning against the side of her car, her long reddish-brown hair swept across her right shoulder, her lips shimmering with chapstick as she smirks at him. "Hey, what are you doing here?"

"Your mom needed some more aletris root and coltsfoot, so I decided to pay a visit. You know, do the whole catching up thing." She shrugs her bony shoulder, looking as calm and free as a soft wind. "Hop in and you can tell me about these mysterious trips of yours to the city."

"Uh," Peter frowns. His vision swims and blurs again. "Sure."

Destiny's car smells like it usually does—a mix of patchouli, something strangely metallic, and nag champa. There is a crystal hanging from a rear-view mirror that dances rainbows across the dashboard. Peter tries not to stare at it too intensely, but his brain just isn't listening to him correctly. Destiny is saying something about a client she met recently who thought he was a reincarnation of a panther spirit, but Peter can't quite follow—not when there are smells and rainbows and colors whirling by.

Suddenly, the car slams to a stop. "Okay, that's it!" Destiny's voice is sharp and breaks through Peter's haze. She grabs him by the chin like he is a small child. It reminds Peter of when she used to babysit and he got into something of his mother's that he wasn't supposed to. "What are you on?"

Peter frowns, the words not quite making sense. "Huh?"

"Goddamn it, Peter! It's the full moon tonight. You know how important it is that you're alert! I can't bring you home to your mother like this."

"Des," Peter's mind churns, trying to connect the dots and failing to do so. "I don't get what you're saying."

"You're high, you idiot."

"What? No, I'm not."

"Oh please." She slams her palm against her steering wheel, her eyes flashing in anger. "Pete, I deal with herbs, potions, and trances for a living. I know what an 'altered state' looks like. You're a fucking kite right now. Now, what did you take?"

"Nothing!"

"That's bullshit, Pete."

"No, it's not. I seriously…" Peter looks down at his hands for a moment. The light is playing off of the crystal again, and every crease in his palm looks like it is shimmering and warping. "Oh Jesus. I… God, I really am high right now. How the fuck did that happen?"

Destiny's expression falters for a moment. "Are you serious? You actually don't know?"

Peter shakes his head. He feels like he could fall into the whirls on his fingertips, like the very landscape could swallow him up. Somewhere out of his vision, Destiny curses under her breath and restarts the car.

When they get back to his mom's house, Destiny is through the door like a fired bullet. She is talking a mile a minute, switching in frustration between English and Romanian. Lynda frowns, her gaze flickering back and forth between Peter and Destiny.

"Come here, baby," she finally says. Peter gulps as he walks up to her. Her hands are cool on his face and he realizes that he feels feverish. She stares into his eyes, questioning and searching. "What did you eat today, honey? Anything?"

"Just a bit of coffee at the bus station."

Lydia frowns and looks worried. "Nothing else?"

Peter shakes his head. "I didn't even have a cigarette."

Destiny curses and stomps one foot. "What about that friend you've been staying with? They give you anything?"

"I already said no! I…" Suddenly Peter freezes and a chill rushes down his spine in realization. "Oh. Fuck."

The confused and worried expressions on Lynda and Destiny's faces are a perfectly matching pair. It's Lynda though who brushes his curled hair from his face and asks, "What is it, baby?"

Peter gulps. "Des, you used to tell me stories when I was a kid. What was that one about the werewolf and the traveling magician who tries to get him to drink a glass of wine?"

Destiny frowns. "Um, there's a traveling magician and he meets a man who is a werewolf. The magician has made a living collecting rare ingredients and selling them to the highest bidder. He wants the werewolf so he can tear out his nails to make potions, and his teeth to make balms. So, he puts a drop of upir blood in a glass of wine to ensnare the wolf's mind, but the werewolf can tell the man is up to no good, so he…"

"Yeah, that's the one. Why would that work?"

Destiny frowns. "What would what work?"

"The blood. What does it do?"

Destiny scowls. "Peter, what the hell have you been doing in New York!?"

Lynda holds up a hand as if to say, "Destiny, calm down," then puts her arms around Peter's shoulders. "What happened, sweetheart?"

Peter winces and rubs his eyes, trying to ignore the swirls and shapes behind his eyelids. "I may have… accidentally… gotten a little bit of upir blood in my mouth."

"How, exactly, does that happen 'accidentally'?" Destiny snaps. Lynda doesn't say anything, but Peter can practically hear Destiny's question echoed in her body language too. He sighs

"Because I was kissing someone. Who is one. Upir, I mean."

The silence is so thick that it's practically suffocating. It is finally broken by a string of foul Romani curses spit like tacks from Destiny's mouth. But Lynda's eyes are softer now, her lips quirked into a slight smirk. "And how is Roman doing?" his mother asks.

Peter blushes. "Uh, fine? I guess. He's… fine."

Destiny stops and stares at Lynda for a moment. "What am I missing?"

Lynda half-smiles, her eyes fixed on her son's flushed face. "That is right, isn't it? Roman is the person you've been staying with in New York? And the person who you may have 'accidentally'…?"

Peter nods, cheeks half-burning with the intensity of Lynda and Destiny's stares. He hears Destiny snort in reply.

"Să mori tu!" she spits. "Peter, you are by far the stupidest cousin I could have! The Godfrey boy? I hope God takes pity on you soon and gives you a scrap of sense, little voro."

"Destiny," Lynda says, "do you have anything that will lessen the effect of upir blood?"

Destiny hesitates, then nods. "Do you have clove and nutmeg? I can take care of the rest with what I brought with me."

Lynda nods and Destiny spirits out of the room. Peter sighs and lets himself be gathered into a tight hug. His mother whispers softly against his hair, petting the back of his neck like she did when he was a child. As the swirls of light dance behind his eyes, he finds himself whispering, "You're really not pissed at me?"

"Furious," Lynda admits. "But I was your age, once upon a time. I know you don't want to tell your mother everything. We all need some secrets. And while your cousin is right to be concerned, I remember Roman being a very nice boy, all things considered."

Peter nods, burying his nose harder against his mother's neck. "He… it was just really nice not to feel alone. He's been going through a lot too. I think we both needed a reminder on how to feel human."

Lynda nods, threading her fingers softly through his wavy hair. Destiny returns with a mug of a spicy smelling tea that looks like it has the consistence of mud. Wincing as he does so, Peter drinks it down quickly, coughing as the taste of earth and moss cling to the insides of his throat.

"You should feel clearer soon," Destiny insists. Peter nods, wincing.

"Peter, can I borrow your phone?" Lynda asks. Peter nods, too busy feeling lost in the swimming of his brain to question why. It's not until his mother starts talking that he realizes who she has dialed.

"Hi, Roman, it's Lynda Rumancek. Do you remember me?" She pauses as the muffled voice on the other voice answers, obviously hesitantly. "Of course. Well, I don't know if Peter mentioned, but we always have an early dinner the night of his shift. Oh, he did? Good. Well, I wanted to invite you over to join us, if you're not busy. No, it's fine if you don't eat—I understand and promise I won't be insulted." She pauses again. "Great. Sure, just hold on one second." Lynda hands the phone over to Peter, her mouth pressed together in a satisfied and somewhat smug smile.

Peter heaves a heavy sigh as he puts the phone to his ear. "Hey, Roman—"

"What the fuck, Rumancek! When did you tell your mother?"

"About five minutes ago. She kind of figured it out."

"And her immediate reaction is to invite me over for dinner?"

"I guess so. She seems to be taking it pretty well." Peter hesitates. "Hey, did any of your mom's books mention that vampire blood makes werewolves high?"

"What? Seriously?" The phone is silent for a moment before Roman chuckles. "What is that like?"

Peter smirks and lowers his voice a bit. "Have you ever taken mushrooms?"

"I lived in a small town and had access to practically limitless amounts of wealth," Roman scoffs in response. "What do you think?"

Peter half-laughs. "Well, it kind of feels like that, but with more of a body-high. And it's messing with my sense of time a bit."

"Well, shee-it." Roman sighs. "So, your mom's not faking being 'okay,' right? If I make the drive over there, will I be walking into an angry gypsy magic trap or anything?"

"Not from my mom," Peter says. "Destiny is here too, though, and I can't speak for her. She's a bit less than thrilled." Roman curses on the line in response. "But if you do come, you can stay over and watch me shift. You were just talking about how you wanted to see that again, right?"

Roman is silent a moment before breathing hotly into the phone's receiver: "I can be there by three."

.

.

Roman knows this is a bad idea. Destiny hates him—he is pretty sure of that. And Lynda always seemed nice, but she is still an unknown factor. Everything about the situation tells him that he's walking into something unfamiliar, and thus possibly dangerous.

But that doesn't stop him from feeling strangely warm when Lynda opens the door and almost immediately pulls him into a hug. Roman's family had never really touched. Olivia was always an elegant ice-queen, cold and distant and beautiful. Shelley had always loved Roman and shared her writing with him, but she was afraid of her own body and strength and almost never touched anyone, not even him. And Letha…

Roman forces that last thought out of his head and remembers to smile. "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Rumancek."

"Call me, Lynda. Peter's just lying down for a bit, getting the last of that stuff out of his system." Her voice is calm and casual, as if she mentioned Peter was changing his socks. Roman nods, trying not to wonder too much what she thinks of him after all this.

The Rumancek household looks very similar to the old trailer Roman remembers from Hemlock Grove: deep wood, scattered knick-knacks, the smell of a home lived in. Roman feels more at ease—until he sees Destiny. She is looking at him like she wants to tear him limb from limb. It's a very unattractive look, which is striking given how attractive Destiny is physically. Roman has caught himself fantasizing about Destiny before—all long legs and soft curves. Occasionally, the fantasy involves Peter too—two Rumanceks for the imaginary price of one. Her hatred of him has only slightly lessened the fantasy, though he knows her power is such that he needs to be wary. Short skirts and midriffs aside, Destiny probably knows more about how to take down a vampire than he does, which is dangerous on many levels. He hopes that her concern about Peter's feelings outweighs her desire to get Roman out of his life permanently.

Lynda says something about a roast and goes to check on both dinner and Peter. Leaving Roman alone with Destiny—damn his luck. The beautiful gypsy takes a long chain from her neck—just one of several necklaces draping down her cleavage—and swings it around her hand in a way that seems almost nervous. Roman hesitates. It's possible Destiny is more wary of him than he is of her. He thinks of his strength and speed, and realizes it's probably the case. He clears his throat slightly and tries to break the ice a bit. "You know, I…"

"What do you want with Peter?" Destiny interrupts, her eyes sharp and clear as they meet Roman's.

Roman frowns. Destiny's expression is threatening, and he feels the cold tendrils of power unfurl in his stomach instinctively. "Whatever he'll give me," he answers honestly.

Destiny snorts. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm afraid of." She steps forward, her necklace swinging pendulum-like from her fingers. "Peter seems to think you're being a good boy. That you're not like your mother."

Roman nods slightly. "I'm trying."

Destiny swings her necklace again. "And does he have a good idea of who you are? What kinds of things you've done or are capable of? Have you," Destiny's gaze burns into him, "told him everything?"

"Yes," Roman says immediately. Suddenly he gasps, his hand erupting in sharp pain. Destiny's chain is touching the side of his arm, and now a red welt appears as if the chain has scalded him.

"The necklace is enchanted," Destiny explains. "And you're lying. You've kept something from him."

Roman hisses and grabs his arm. The coldness in his stomach overtakes him a moment and he can feel his eyes glow with power and rage. "You gypsy cunt, I should fucking…" Destiny steps back, her eyes widening in fright for a moment. Roman bites down on his tongue and curses to himself for losing control. "I mean…" He forces the rage down, but it's hard with memories of pain and blood and Letha. But he can't explain that to Destiny. If he can't even tell Peter…

Roman takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again. He knows he looks more in control, more human. But Destiny still looks like she wants to put a stake through his chest, her hands hovering near her own throat as if to shield it. "I… I'm not going to…" Roman starts then stops again. "You're right, okay? I am keeping something from him. But just because I think it will hurt him, and I don't want to do that."

"No, it's because you think he'll leave you if he knows," Destiny says with certainty. The truthfulness of that statement cuts like a knife. Roman scowls.

"Maybe. But I care about Peter. A lot. I'm not going to hurt him."

Destiny's expression softens slightly, but in a way that is more sharply pitying than calm. "You can't know that. You're an upir. Hurting people is what you do."

Roman doesn't know what to say to that. For better or worse, the moment is broken as Peter stumbles into the room, a sleepy smile on his face as he swings an arm around Roman's waist and kisses him on the cheek. Roman gulps and breaths the presence of Peter in for a moment. Destiny is wrong, he assures himself. He won't hurt Peter. It won't be like it was with Letha. It just won't be.

.

.

The night is mostly uneventful, with dinner consisting of polite conversation and little tension. Lynda knows that something transpired between Roman and Destiny, as both of them avoid eye-contact with each other as much as possible, but Peter doesn't seem to notice all night and Lynda isn't about to point it out.

She watches quietly as Roman and Peter wash dishes together, playfully bumping elbows and hips. She hasn't seen Peter this happy since… well, since Hemlock Grove. She remembers when the Godfrey boy first came over to watch Peter turn. Her son had never shared his secret with anyone who wasn't part of the family, and it had seemed significant how curious and accepting Roman was. She remembers sitting on the couch with him, drinking a beer while Peter ran in the woods, his blue eyes sparkling with knowledge and wonder, and with the trust that Peter had shown him.

Now, here they are again. As the sun begins to set, Peter strips down and begins to prepare for the change. It's a familiar ritual, one which has changed little since her son was eleven years old and shifted for the first time. Tonight, though, Peter hesitates and then smiles, pulling Roman to him for a final kiss before the change. It is a break in habit, a new addition.

"Wait for me on the porch at sun up," Peter whispers against Roman's neck. Roman nods, and Lynda can't help but think that they both look happy.

The next few minutes are a blur of crackling bones, blood, and Peter's pained gasps shifting into familiar growls. Then, it's no longer her son who stands before them, but the wolf. And just like that, he's gone—rushing into the woods to chase a sound or smell that is more interesting than this person-filled clearing.

Destiny turns to go back to the house, and then so does Lynda. Roman is the last one to turn away, his gaze following the wolf until it can't be seen anymore.

The night is quiet then—Destiny makes tea and talks about work, Roman shares a bit about school and accepts the offer of a beer. They don't talk about Peter.

Hours later, it is almost sun-up and Roman wraps a blanket around his shoulders, excusing himself and leaving to go sit on the porch.

"I can't believe you're allowing this," Destiny half-whispers after he leaves. "You have to know that Peter is going to be hurt."

"Peter has already been hurt," Lynda sighs. "And so has Roman. Who am I to tell them not to find solace in each other?"

Through the window, Lynda watches silently as a dark-furred wolf comes out from the forest. It paws its way through the clearing and comes up to the house, hesitating a moment as every animal instinct tells it to stay away from residences and humans. But then the wolf walks forward again, carefully moving up the porch steps and then coming to lay next to the Godfrey boy. The wolf puts his head on Roman's leg, and Roman carefully scratches the wolf behind the ears for a moment before leaning down and planting a soft kiss on his head. The wolf whimpers and snuggles against Roman's leg more insistently. It is a quiet moment of intimacy, and Lynda feels slightly intrusive for having seen it.

"The wolf likes him," she whispers. "That says something."

"Yeah," Destiny says. "It says that Peter's defenses are down. And that it'll be even worse when the kid does something to betray his trust."

Lynda sighs. She knows that her niece is probably right, that there is another shoe waiting to drop somewhere. But for now she watches as Roman whispers lovingly to the wolf nuzzling his hand, and she hopes with all her heart that any dangers are distant ones.


	8. Commanded

Michael’s boots create a round knocking sound on the marble tile—it echoes in hall’s wide air. At the end of the expansive hallway, there is a small study with an ancient desk. Rumors around the Church say that the desk is made from the coffin of Countess Elizabeth Báthory, the Blood Countess. The ancient vampire’s death is one of the Church’s proudest secret victories over the devil’s powers. The desk is handed down from bishop to bishop, the one who heads the team that still hunts such creatures. Which is why Michael finds Bishop Gray’s twisted form looming behind the ancient wood, the afternoon sun harsh on the side of his face. 

“What news, Michael?” the Bishop asks. “Have you found the vampire that I sent you to seek?”

“Yes, your grace,” Michael responds.

“He’s not dead though.” It is a statement and not a question. Michael feels the tension grow in his stomach. _The Bishop already knows_ , he thinks. This does not bode well.

“No, your grace. I felt it was… essential that I consult with you first.”

“You need not consult with me before performing the Lord’s work, my son.” The Bishop’s voice is pinched and impatient.

“If you’ll excuse me, your grace, I feel I must. You have recently acquired for the Vatican a position of importance on the board of Godfrey Institute for Biomedical Technologies.” The Bishop’s silence is deafening and Michael wonders at the danger of proceeding. He feels a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. “Your grace… the vampire is the young Godfrey heir. I felt, given the unique circumstance, that I should inform you before continuing further.”

The Bishop takes a deep breath, seemingly more for show than need. “Oh my, oh my. Are you certain, my boy?” The Bishop’s voice is light, stretched slightly with something almost like concern. Michael knows the Bishop’s tones, however, and he feels his teeth clench in anger. The Bishop’s surprise is feigned, the feeling of “discovery” counterfeit. The Bishop already knew. He has always known. “Oh dear, how unfortunate. That will be _terrible_ for the Godfrey Institute. But it is not our place to give mercy, as these creatures deserve none. You know that, Michael. These offsprings of the devil must not be allowed to endure. Think of who else they will harm—your poor sister is just one terrible example of what happens when you let down your guard around the devil’s pawns.”

Michael’s throat tightens as he begins to nod. “But… you… your grace…. I have not found any evidence of the Godfrey boy murdering anyone. We typically don’t—”

“’Yet,’ you mean,” the Bishop replies dryly. “Do you think a vampire, the devil’s spawn, ever lives a life free of death, Michael? They steal the Lord’s gift to humans—His very breath of life—in order to fuel their own cursed existences. Do you think one would ever grant you mercy?”

Michael swallows, thinking of the cruel silver eyes and hooked fangs that he has seen a myriad of times in his work for the Vatican. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, your grace.”

“And so they are not worthy of your mercy either. Would you wait for countless to die at his hands—next month, next year, next decade, a century from now?”

“No, your grace.”

“Then go—and return when the Lord’s work is done.”

Michael bows once more and turns on his heels to exit the hall. The hallow sound of his boots on marble sounds deeper now, like a death sentence. He knows he should not be questioning the Bishop’s words. He is, after all, a man of God. There was a time that the Bishop was like a father to him. And yet… and yet… he is also a man. Who stands to gain so much from the Godfrey boy’s fall.

Godfrey _boy_? No, the Bishop is right. The Godfrey heir is no boy. He is a monster, even one cleverly disguised. And so Michael says a prayer of quiet determination. He will fulfill the Lord’s will—he will kill the vampire called Roman Godfrey.

.

.

Peter isn’t stupid. He’s really not. He knows deep in his guts that Destiny’s warnings make sense, that _upir_ are—for all intents and purposes—dangerous. He remembers, when he was a child, Destiny showing him books with nightmarish watercolors: women with wild hair and silver eyes, human faces twisted in rapture as both blood and life drained from their bodies. There were warnings and tales of mind-control, of fierce demonic strength, and of the hatred that _upir_ had for shape-shifters and gypsies alike.

But Peter can’t help but feel that Roman is different. Different in the way he brushes Peter’s hair from his face to plant a soft kiss on his forehead. Different in the way he whispers against Peter’s ear as he fucks him hot and deep. Different in the way he smiles in the early light of the morning. Different in how he gasps in frantic desperation as he rides Peter’s cock. Different in the vulnerability of cracking himself open, body and soul, to Peter’s mouth and hands and care. And, yeah, okay, Destiny would probably be quick to point out to Peter how much of that ‘feeling’ is sex _—‘Sex is how the upir_ get _you, Peter!_ ’ she would scold—but he feels like it’s more than that too.

They made a connection in Hemlock Grove. Something that lasted, that said “brother, you are not alone.” Now more than ever, they are both so different from the humans who surround them. They spend so much of their time hiding their monstrous sides from the world, which is probably why they release so much of that hidden secret with each other. Roman likes to pull Peter’s hair and fuck him on his hands and knees roughly until Peter is howling and practically clawing at the mattress, growling wolf-like under his breath. And Peter likes to drive Roman crazy, to tease him and suck him into his mouth slowly until Roman’s eyes are blown out silver and his fangs slip unbidden from his gums. They both know what each other are, and so they can drop the pretense. They can lose control—at least a little. It, oddly, helps Peter feel more human.

But somewhere, in the back of Peter’s mind, there’s an itch. An acknowledgement that Destiny’s stories are rooted in something. That another shoe must drop.

Which is why, as Peter’s hand freezes on the doorknob of Roman’s front door, he’s only a little shocked to smell fear and blood—both human and the hint of some sort of singed meat, only barely bleeding—emanating from the loft’s insides. It smells like a chaos that has finally caught up with their dream of order. Peter takes a deep breath and opens the door.

 A woman stands inside the kitchen—Peter knows it’s a woman, but her round fearful eyes make her look more like a young girl—in nothing but a tee shirt and her underwear, looking at a bloody steak on a hot pan with unreal horror. She shrieks when she sees Peter in the doorway, looking down at herself and at her kitchen surroundings as if snapping out of a dream.

“Woah, it’s okay,” Peter is quick to insist. “I’m—”

“Roman’s friend,” the girl finishes. “Right, you were coming over. I was supposed to, um, I was supposed to…” She looks around the apartment, her eyes glazing slightly “…clean up. Shit, I was supposed to clean up before you got here. He told me to. God, I don’t know what… what…” Her eyes fade in and out of focus and her breath is uneven. Peter feels anger and a kind of betrayal tighten in his stomach. But he shoves it down with a deep breath and steps forward carefully. The girl flinches at the movement.

“It’s okay,” he says with the calmest voice he can muster, “just concentrate on my voice. Focus on where you’re standing. Breathe.”

She closes her eyes and breaths deeply. Peter matches his breath to hers, then slows his down incrementally. She follows the cue, her shoulders untightening slightly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she finally whispers. “Roman had to go to some sort of emergency business meeting—I think that’s what he said. He got a call this morning. He said I could sleep in a bit and that I could make myself some food and… ugh, things are a bit hazy after that. I know I was supposed to pick up the mess a bit and lock up after myself. That he had a friend—oh, right, I guess that’s you—coming over. But then, after I got up, I kind of blanked out. And… and when I was aware of things again, I was cooking _that_ over there.” She points to the steak on the stove, one side cooked and the other side still red and raw.

“Maybe you were just hungry,” Peter supplies, but his voice is strained and flat. The woman shakes her head half-frantically.

“I’m a vegan! I can’t even imagine how I picked th-that _thing_ up, let alone put it in the pan! But, for some weird reason, I’ve got this—” her voice cracks slightly and she nearly claws at the side of her head “—this voice in my brain that says I really, really need to eat it. And then I need to pick up the apartment. And lock the door. It’s just repeating over and over and I can’t get it to stop and it scares me!” A sob bubbles in her throat and Peter thinks he hears her murmur something about a “poor cow” as she looks at the steak again.

Peter clenches and unclenches his fists a few times before speaking again. “It’s probably just that you need vitamins. Come on, let’s get you dressed—I think I saw a smoothie shop down the street.”

The girl’s eyes continue to go in and out of focus as she dresses and gathers her keys and purse. Peter tosses the steak in the trash while she does so, which causes his wolf to whimper a little. It likes nearly raw steak. But Peter is too angry, too focused on the situation at hand to deal with his wolf’s cravings right now.

Peter walks with the girl down the street and helps her order a green smoothie from a too-brightly lit juice shop with bouncy pop music playing over the speakers. He then sighs in relief when he sees that he has remembered Roman’s neighborhood correctly—there is also a chain coffee & tea shop next door. He sits the woman down with her smoothie and excuses himself a moment. The barista at the shop gives him a look of half disgust at his order “Uh, we don’t have cinnamon stick, just powder,” the barista sharply replies. To Peter’s relief, they do have nutmeg left over from their holiday drink series, though. It isn’t perfect, but it will have to do.

He lets the tea concoction brew strongly while the woman drinks her green smoothie out in the New York sun, her eyes darting across the patio as if to reassure herself where she is every few moments. Peter sits down across from her carefully, handing her the paper coffee cup. “Here. Breathe this in deeply and slowly. It’ll help focus you.” She does and Peter carefully reaches forward and touches her temples. “Breathe. It’s okay. You’re here. You did everything you were supposed to do. You’re a good person. Everything right now is okay.” She breathes and nods slowly. When she opens her eyes again, they are clearer and far more focused.

“Uh, thank you,” she says, her cheeks flushing. “I don’t know what came over me. God, I feel like such a freak. This has to be the weirdest one night stand of my life—and that’s saying something. Oh god, I don’t even know your name! And you just saw me in my underwear!” Peter laughs and she smiles at him in a way that is both sweet and sheepish. The look reminds him of Letha and his stomach tightens again. “I’m April, by the way.” She extends her hand, and Peter can’t help but notice her pale green manicure.

“Peter,” he responds.

“How on earth did you know to do, well, whatever it is you did, Peter? I mean, I was freaking out and didn’t even feel like I really knew where I was, and then you usher me to spinach smoothies and tea, and I’m feeling like me again.”

“Gypsy wisdom,” Peter responds, voice heavy with half-joking mirth. That launches April into a laughter of probing questions. He can tell she’s flirting—it’s soft and sweet and not too aggressive, but it’s there. Every second, the anger in his stomach deepens. April is funny and bashful and earnest. She deserves to go out to a dance club and tease a guy about eating bacon, to exchange phone numbers with someone and become giddy at the first text, to wake up some morning more concerned about her morning breath than where she is and how she got there.

“Oh god,” April brushes her fingers through her hair. “Listen to me! You probably have things to do. But, I mean, I don’t know what you’re doing later, but I’d really like to do something to thank you. I’ll have you know I make a killer raw-vegan alfredo sauce if you—”

“Sorry, I’m just… passing through,” Peter responds. The words feel like ash in his mouth. “And yeah, I do have to do something. But I’m glad you’re okay.” He stands quickly and turns away, her yell behind him of ‘thank you’ nearly lost in the sound of nearby traffic.

The anger grows in his stomach, the wolf’s fur prickling and responding to his mood. He feels violent and furious. To him, the hollow slam of Roman’s apartment door is the sound of the other shoe dropping.

.

.

Roman feels violent and furious. That _man_ , Gray, has worn his patience down to its limits. It isn’t just that he rescheduled the Godfrey board meeting originally planned for next week—without asking Roman—for this morning, but more importantly that Gray had called and insisted that it was “too important” to call in over the phone. It “would be best,” the man had insisted, to come in to a Godfrey Institute partner company and conference from there. “You _are_ in New York, aren’t you?” the man’s voice had practically dripped with a strange eagerness and presumptuousness. Roman thinks of the voice now and wants to tear the man’s throat out. No one speaks to him with that tone. At least, no one has who has gotten away with it. He’s a Godfrey, after all.

Roman shakes his head and tries to pull himself out of his current state. It’s early afternoon now and Peter should be waiting at his apartment. When he gets to his front door, the lock is already undone. “Hey,” Roman chirps. He pushes the door open and sees Peter sitting on the couch, looking deep in thought, his leather jacket draped over the couch next to him, the afternoon sun streaming through the strands of his hair.

Seeing Peter undoes some of his earlier rage and frustration. He just wants to grab the werewolf by the back of his head and pull him into a fierce kiss, to put his emotions to better use. But when he steps forward, the look in Peter’s eyes causes him to freeze.

“You had a guest when I got here,” Peter says flatly.

 _Oh_. Okay. “You don’t have to be jealous,” Roman forces a smirk. “I sleep with other people for food, you know that. But, don’t worry, you’re the only one I really—”

“It’s not about that,” Peter interrupts. “When I showed up, she didn’t know where she was or what she was doing. She was scared and out of her mind. What did you tell her to do, Roman?”

Roman shrugs. “Eat some food, clean up, lock the door after she left. Wasn’t exactly torture, Peter.”

“Did you tell her to eat the steak in the fridge?”

“Uh, yeah? Protein and iron. I took a decent amount of blood—couldn’t let her leave all woozy. What’s the big deal? Why are you freaking out about this?”

“Did you know she was vegan? You seriously messed with her head, Roman!”

Roman frowns. “No, I didn’t know that. It didn’t come up.” Although that would explain the weird tattoo on her hip that looked like a bunch of lettuce. “And I certainly wouldn’t have guessed, given that she didn’t have any problem swallowing down my—”

Peter growls deep in his throat, his hands tightening into fists. “You didn’t see her—she was scared. And you’re making jokes! She’s a person, Roman. You can’t just do whatever you like, you can’t see her as only food. That’s what your mother would do, and I thought you wanted to be better than that!”

Roman feels fury rekindling in his stomach. “If I only saw her the way my mother would—as ‘only food’—she would be a _corpse_ right now. The fact that she’s alive makes me a hell of a lot better than my mother.”

“Oh, is that our new standard? We’re not shooting for ‘good’ anymore, just ‘better than your mother’?”

Roman’s teeth ache a bit and he bites out sarcastically, “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re so right. I’ll just stop drinking blood now, no problem. It’s not like I need it to _live_ or anything.”

 “Oh get off it, you know I’m not telling you to starve! But she’s a person, Roman! Her name is April and she’s a vegan and she makes a ‘killer’ raw alfredo sauce and you raped her mind and don’t seem to care about it at all!”

“You’re right.” Roman shrugs. “I don’t care. I would care if I killed her. I would care if I knew her better, maybe. But no, I really don’t care that a total stranger got bothered by my command clashing with her personal dietary morals. That’s not the end of the world, Peter.”

Peter’s expression looks like a dog that’s been swatted on the nose—a bit dazed and confused, then frustrated and pained. “You know what? If that’s really what you think, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m going to—” Peter grabs his leather jacket and turns toward the door.

Roman feels his heart race in panic. _No, no, no, no, no!_ Peter can’t leave. Not again. Peter is his rock. His passion. This shouldn’t be such a big deal. It doesn’t have to be...

Roman rushes between Peter and the door, his own blue gaze meeting Peter’s green. “Peter,” Roman says firmly. Their eyes lock, and then Roman pushes just slightly. “Peter, this isn’t a big deal.” He pushes a bit more, the silver tendrils in his gut reaching out. “You don’t have to leave. You don’t want to leave. You think we’re fine again and you want to stay.”

Peter’s eyes glaze over and become hazy a moment. Then he shakes his head and growls loudly. “Did you just… did you just try to eye control me?”

Roman’s stomach drops in panic. “I—no, Peter, I—”

“You did! Fucker! You just tried to mind rape me! Goddamn it, Roman!” Peter shrugs on his leather jacket, the rage clear in his motions and clenched teeth.

Roman feels like the room is collapsing around him and he grasps desperately for Peter’s leather clad arm. “Peter—”

“No!” Peter’s voice is thick with wolf. He snatches his arm away from Roman, panting hard with anger. “There are clear lines and you fucking crossed them! _Să te fut_! Get out of my way!”

Roman practically whimpers as he stays where he is, half-blocking the door from Peter’s use. “Peter, I—”

“Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” Peter’s voice is cold and flat now. It sounds almost hateful. Almost against his will, Roman backs away from the door. When it slams, the sound echoes in the empty apartment.

Roman falls for a moment, landing on the cold floor in a near heap. A sobs pours unbidden from his throat and he pulls his arms around himself tightly.

When he found himself like this as a child, his mother would hold him and whisper darkly, _‘My little prince, what can I do to make you happy? Tell me what you need.’_

But his mother is dead now. And his request now would be the same as it was the last time she asked, and it would be equally unfulfilled. _Peter_. He needs Peter. But Peter is angry at him, maybe hates him. And for what? There are so many other things that Roman knows Peter would actually have a right to hate him over, but this woman? Why does she matter? Who is she to make Peter care? Roman moans and hugs his knees against his chest.

Then, suddenly, there is a knock at the door. It’s soft at first and Roman barely hears it. Then a second, firmer now. Roman looks at the entryway, unbelieving for a moment. He uncharacteristically wipes his nose on his sleeve, his eyes fixed on the door as he stumbles to his feet to answer it.

“Peter?” he asks hopefully as he opens the lock. There is no answer at first, just a sound of wind followed by a sharp pain. Roman screams and looks down in horror. Blood has begun to spread across his white button-up shirt. It takes him a moment to notice that his side is gashed and bleeding. Dazed, he looks up at the figure before him. In the doorway stands a tall, dark skinned man in a black suit, holding a thin rapier-like sword in his grip.

“Roman Godfrey,” the man whispers. “I judge you in the name of the Lord. And the Lord has commanded your death.”


	9. Fear and Anger

His chest hurts like someone is inside his ribcage, clutching his heart tightly and squeezing hard. He’s used to feeling himself literally ripped apart every month, the wolf clawing and tearing his way through his flesh to the outside, so you’d think he’d be beyond pain by now. But this pain is figurative and elusive, emotions and thoughts rather than tendons and sinews. Peter can vaguely feel the wolf’s fur under his skin; the wolf understands that there is pain, but not where it is coming from. Peter’s thoughts and emotions are a mess, a mixture of human hurt and anger and wolvish confusion and desire. He storms down the building’s metal steps, the stairway wrapped in mirrors and glass. He catches a glimpse of his reflection for a moment, eyes red but determined. Peter knows that Roman crossed a line. He needs to get out of here, to clear his head—then maybe he and Roman can talk things out, but not until Peter’s had a chance to work through some of his pain and fury.

Then there’s the scream, and just a few moments later the smell of blood.

Peter’s feet freeze on the stairs. He pauses just for a moment to listen and smell—there’s a crash of something, glass shatters, and the smell of blood gets stronger. He doesn’t even hesitate for a moment as he turns around and starts to bound up the stairs again.

He’s still angry at Roman. But there’s no question that something is wrong.

.

.

Michael had been mere yards away from the looming building when one of the Bishop’s men had come running up to him, a thick file in his hand.

“Sir,” the man had said, bowing his head for a moment. “His excellency thought you should have this.”

For the next several hours, Michael had poured over that file, his blood boiling at every page. It was a history of the Godfrey family, mainly of the now late vampire who had recently called herself Olivia Godfrey. She had gone by so many other names before—Alexandra Caprisse, Donatella Giula, Loredana Sforza to name only a few. She had been a viper in woman’s skin—always shielding herself with powerful men to avoid Vatican retribution. The crimes linked to her were vast and ruthless. The pages were filled with evidence of throats torn open for fun as much as feeding, of tortures, of corruptions that made Michael’s stomach turn.

In comparison to Olivia’s history, the section on Roman seemed shockingly short. Most of the file was evidence for or against whether or not the young man had finished his turn into a creature of death. There was, of course, a slim chance that the man had not inherited the vampire traits at all… though that was unlikely. All evidence pointed to Olivia killing her babies at birth who did not have obvious signs of supernatural power.

And then there was the cousin. Michael remembers the way his nails dug into his palms when he read that page. Roman and his cousin, Letha, had been as close as siblings. And yet, what advantage he took of her, how much like his mother he appeared to be. As he read the file, Michael could see the path that Roman walked and where it would lead: blood, pain, and death. Regardless of the Bishop’s own motivations for dispatching the Godfrey, he was right. Vampires are not human—they do not feel empathy or mercy or love. If Roman Godfrey, young though he may be, is such a creature, then he must die.

Michael had held tight to that knowledge as he walked up the flight of stairs to Roman’s flat in dazed determination, the feeling of the Holy Spirit rushing through him. He only barely noted a young man with brown hair nearly barreling him over, rushing down the same stairway in a blur of wavy hair, denim, and leather.

By the time he arrived at the vampire’s door, he was nearly in a trance of that calm determination. And when the door opened and he saw the creature’s face, he struck without hesitation.

Which brings us to now. To the creature’s pained scream and sharp breathing. To Michael readying the blade again, his rapier dripping with fresh blood. The vampire named Roman Godfrey stumbles back, his eyes wide in the terror of discovery.

“Who the hell are you?” he cries. He wears the mask of human expression, one of confusion and agony. “What do you want?”

“I told you already,” Michael replies calmly. “For you to face judgment, monster. The Lord has commanded your death, and I am the instrument of the Lord’s will.”

He strikes forward again, but this time the vampire is ready. He moves as fast as blinking, rushing across the room and toward the loft’s kitchen. Michael is prepared for the vampire’s speed, though, and adjusts for it as he rushes forward with another strike. He catches the creature on the arm, another deep gash appearing as blood seeps into the vampire’s clothes. The monster reacts, but only instinctively—he jerks backward, stumbling into his glass coffee table. Michael uses the advantage and rushes forward, tackling the vampire onto the table, which breaks under their weight, glass shattering around them.

The vampire screams, glass cutting into his cheek now as well. Michael also has a few cuts, but that should actually be to his advantage—the smell of blood will distract the vampire, play on his hunger.

The vampire shoves Michael with his full force, pushing him back and halfway across the room in a mere moment. Instead of using the moment for an advantaged attack, though, the creature makes a run for the door. Michael throws a silver-tipped dart tied to garrote wire at the monster, the dart lodging in his shoulder successfully, the pain making the creature stop in his tracks. He tries to pull at the wire, to dislodge the dart from his shoulder, but the wire cuts at his hand, making the vampire hiss in pain and his eyes turn bright silver.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing to my boyfriend!” a voice calls in a near-growl. Michael looks up to see the boy from the stairway standing tall in the door, his teeth barred as he stares at Michael challengingly.

“Whoever you are,” Michael replies flatly, “this does not concern you. Please just—”

“Doesn’t fucking concern me?! Maybe you missed the fucking ‘boyfriend’ part of that sentence? Now who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing?!”

The vampire coughs, half-collapsing against the kitchen counter as the blood continues to pour out of his side and shoulder. “He’s like a Blues Brother or something.” When neither the boy nor Michael give a response, the vampire clarifies: “He’s on a mission from God. Apparently I need to be exterminated.”

“Boy,” Michael keeps a wary eye on the vampire as he speaks, “this is not a young man, but a demonic killer. I’m sorry you have been deceived, but it is really in your best interest to leave right now, before—”

“No deceiving has happened,” the boy snorts. “I know what Roman is, and he’s no killer.”

Michael turns his eyes away from the vampire cautiously to look more carefully at the boy in the doorway. His brown hair is curled and tangled, his face lean and determined. He shows no fear about the snarling, silver-eyed demon. Interesting.

“If you had any idea the poisonous stock this creature comes from, you’d—”

“I know all about Olivia,” the boy responds, practically spitting the name. “But Roman is not his mother! He’s done his best to be something different. You can’t hold the child responsible for the sins of the parent!”

“No,” Michael agrees. “But his own sins burn in their own right. You say he’s no killer? I would still hold him responsible for the death of his poor cousin, amongst others.”

The brown-haired boy’s eyes flash in uncertainty, his glance slipping over to his ‘boyfriend’ for a moment.

“Oh,” Michael continues. “Didn’t he tell you? For mortals, giving birth to a vampire child is almost always a death sentence. To rape his cousin, erase her memory, and leave her to that fate—”

“No!” the Godfrey croaks, coughing blood in his cry. “Peter, that’s not… not exactly… I swear, I…”

“Not now,” the boy named Peter bites out, not quite looking over at the vampire he addresses. “Shut up and try to stop bleeding.” There is anger practically radiating off of the boy. He hunches his shoulders slightly, as if pulling something from the very depths of himself. When the boy looks up at Michael again, his eyes flash yellow and his voice is deep like an animal growl. “You are going to let us leave. And you are not going to follow us. Because if you do—and I swear this—I will rip you to shreds.”

Michael feels his blood run cold for a moment. “Loup Garou…” he whispers almost to himself. A werewolf. Like the kind his sister went to find. In Hemlock Grove. Michael can’t help but let out a strangled cry as he lunges forward, his sword swiping at the werewolf in front of him. His emotions have clearly clouded his judgment for the strike, however, and the boy is able to dodge to the side. A crystal decanter is grabbed from a side table—Michael sees it for only a moment in his peripheral vision—and brought down with a smash on Michael’s head. As he falls to the ground and the world slips into darkness around him, he sees the werewolf grasp the vampire by the shoulders. Then the world is silent.

.

.

Roman can barely hear the world around him. The voices are louder than they’ve ever been, like screams inside his skull. _FeedEatHungerFeedusWeneedWewantFeedEatFeedHunger…_

He wants to cry. It’s just so loud.

He feels Peter’s hands on him, leading him hurriedly down the staircase and to the parking lot, but it’s distant—like the memory of a feeling. Peter’s talking to him too. It sounds panicked and angry, yet strangely encouraging. He can’t make out particulars, though. There’s only the sounds of the hunger.

“It hurts. God, it’s so loud. Peter!” Roman practically sobs. God, his mother would be so ashamed by that voice. She coddled him at times, but she always made it clear she hated his weakness.

The hands on his shoulders tighten. “We’re almost to the car—hold on!” he makes out over the roar of gnawing and insistent voices. _NeedNeedNeedNeedNeed…_

The blood is still leaking from his side and from his arm. Roman licks some from his hand, but it does nothing, gives him no quiet. He hears himself whimper again and feels pathetic.

Peter slides him into the passenger seat of Roman’s silver sports car, and for a fraction of a second Roman wants to tell Peter that there’s no way in hell he’s letting him drive his car… but he can barely make his throat work except to moan. His whole body feels like it’s on fire and everything is getting louder by the moment.

“Where do I go?!” Peter shouts. Roman realizes that Peter has probably asked this question a few times now. They’re already on the road—Roman had barely noticed.

“Hemlock Grove. My house.”

Roman feels the car jerk to the right as Peter curses loudly in Romani and tries to merge onto a freeway entrance. He closes his eyes and feels the voices envelop him like a cocoon. He wonders what he will turn into.

“Roman! Roman, stay with me! Fuck!” he feels Peter reach over and shake him. “What do you need? Tell me what you need!”

Despite the noise and the pain, Roman coughs out a small, bitter laugh. The question is just so, so stupid. “What do you _think_ I need, ugh, you moron. I’m bleeding. And I drink blood to survive. Basic math here. Addition. Subtraction. Or—ugh—didn’t you get that in school, gyp?”

“You know, you’re a fucking asshole when you’re hurt,” Peter snaps. Roman snorts, opening his eyes and looking over, like through a thick fog, as Peter begins to roll up his sleeve. Then the werewolf reaches out his arm, placing his wrist in front of Roman’s mouth. “If you think it’ll help, fucking bite me. You’re not dying on me, got that!?”

 Roman hesitates slightly, but the voices are too loud to resist. _FeedFeedFeedFeedFeed…_

He bites in and immediately coughs, choking. Werewolf blood. The smell is overwhelming, like spoiled eggs and curdled milk. Peter curses, yanking back his arm abruptly.

“Shit shit shit! Are you okay? Roman—are you okay?!”

Roman tries to nod, but the voices are louder now, clamoring for blood. _BloodHungerBloodBlood_ … 

“Roman, I have an idea. I’m going to get off at this exit, okay? Just—shit, just hold on!”

Roman isn’t sure how much time passes; all he can hear now are the voices and all he can feel is the pain and his own blood leaking onto his hands. Pain and noise, pain and—what? For a moment, Peter was gone, and now Peter is back. Something is being pressed into his hands. Something alive. There’s a heartbeat. And blood. He can hear it and he can smell it. He bites down instinctively, tearing through fur and thin flesh. There a soft shrieking sound, but it quiets almost as soon as it starts. Soon the mass in his hand is cold. No more heartbeat. But then there’s a new wriggling mass. He hisses in pleasure and bites down again, drinking the life down quickly and in great greedy gulps.

.

.

It’s almost dark by the time they pull up to the Godfrey manor. Peter sighs in quiet relief. They’ve been driving in tense silence for over an hour. He pulls into the roundabout and shuts off the car’s engine, turning cautiously to look at Roman.

“Hey, how you doing?”

“Hungry. In Pain. Trying to pretend that this all a dream—that I wasn’t stabbed by a crazy religious monster hunter and don’t have a litter of dead guinea pigs by my feet.”

Peter nods solemnly. Sure, a hundred dollars spent at the pet store seemed to clear Roman’s head. Now that the adrenaline as worn off, though, Peter can smell the dead husks of animal and they make him more than mildly nauseous. The two young men sit in the car, the silence continuing to wrap around them like a smothering blanket. Peter takes a deep breath and asks the question that’s been burning in his mind the whole drive: “Was he lying?” When Roman doesn’t answer, Peter continues, clarifying, “When he said Letha’s baby was yours. That you erased her memory. Was he lying?”

There is another moment of silence. Then Roman whispers, “He wasn’t lying. I didn’t rape her, though. I swear. But I did make her forget. It was all I could… I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Good. Because I don’t.” The words are harsh and biting. Peter regrets the tone, but can’t change it. He wants to tear something to shreds, to hurt.

Roman grimaces, pained like Peter just slapped him. “For the record, you don’t have to stick around. I can take care of—” Roman clearly tries to stand up gracefully, but he stumbles getting out of the car, his face pale and strained.

Peter curses and gets out of the car himself, slamming the door behind him. “No. That guy might come here. I’m pissed as hell, but I don’t exactly want you dead. Not much, anyway.”

There is a tense silence as they enter the kitchen through the garage. Roman pulls out a frozen Tupperware full of blood from the freezer and begins to defrost it. Peter doesn’t ask where the blood came from, is almost afraid to ask after the comment about Letha. He feels like he knows Roman—knows he’s not a killer. Knows he’s nothing like Olivia.  And yet… He thinks of Roman trying to force him to stay with his eyes, of the truth about Letha’s pregnancy. He curses to himself, grinding his teeth together in anger.

Roman looks up at the sound of Peter’s curse, the Godfrey boy’s eyes rich blue again instead of otherworldly silver. He doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, he takes his container of blood and leaves the room, walking down the hall and into a small library. Well, small likely by Godfrey standards—for Peter, it was larger than some of the places he and Lynda had lived.

After Roman begins to pour over books, Peter finally breaks the silence by asking: “What are you looking for?”

Roman half-shrugs a shoulder. “Signs of who’s after me.”

Peter picks up one of the books. “Roman, this is in Latin.”

“Very observant,” Roman replies flatly, turning a page. “Most of my mother’s books are. Which means I need to concentrate. So be quiet.”

Peter stares at Roman in disbelief. “Jesus. Fine—it’s not like I saved your life or anything!”

“I know,” Roman near-groans. “And I am grateful, Peter, I swear. But I’m barely holding myself together and… wait… this is it!” Roman flips the book around so Peter can see it too. There’s an etching of a knight in full armor, a shield clasped to his chest. Roman taps his finger on the shield. “That man was wearing a pendant with this symbol. It says they’re an ancient order connected to the Vatican, famous for hunting demons apparently.”

Peter sucks in a breath. “I’ve seen that before.”

“What?” Roman’s eyes flash silver for just a moment. “Where?”

“Remember that woman who said she was from the wildlife protection or something? When the Vargulf was attacking? She had a necklace like that.”

Roman is silent a moment. Then he starts laughing. “Well sheeeeeit.”

“It’s not that funny.”

“No,” Roman agrees, shaking his head. “It’s really not. But it’s kind of a laugh or cry thing, right?” He turns back to the book, flipping the page and frowning. “The Vatican has denied direct connection to the Order throughout history, but usually they are said to be headed by a church official, typically… a… oh shit, a bishop.” Roman curses and throws the book across the room. Peter raises an eyebrow.

“That mean something to you?”

“Yep.”

“Why? There are tons of bishops in the world.”

“Sure,” Roman agrees. “But only one who joined the board of Godfrey Industries and has been trying to get a controlling share for a few years now.”

Peter’s eyes widen and his mouth opens and closes a few times, like a fish. “Jesus. What are you going to do?”

Roman scowls. “What else is there to do? Heal up. Try not to die. Or, even better, heal up and get strong enough to take the fight straight to the bastard and confront his wrinkled old ass.”

Peter nods slowly. “Can you do that on containers of frozen blood?”

Roman wrinkles his nose and looks at his near-empty blood container. “No, actually. I seriously need some live energy.”

“Oh.” Peter frowns. “Please tell me I don’t have to go get you more guinea pigs. That was traumatizing enough once—I don’t think I can take that again today.”

“No, no more rodents. No pet stores.” Roman drains the blood in his Tupperware and licks his lips clean. “But I do want to ask you to do something.”

Peter hesitates but tries not to show it. Roman walks up to him, blue eyes meeting his own. “What?”

Roman leans in, his mouth now next to Peter’s ear. “Fuck me.”

“What?!” Peter tries to pull back but Roman grasps his wrist so firmly it hurts.

“You heard me,” Roman responds. “You know I feed off of sexual energy too. Succubi, Incubi, we’re all related. I need it, Peter—fuck me.”

“No!” Peter feels a knot forming in his stomach. “I’m still amazingly pissed at you! I can’t—”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me—not right now,” Roman insists. “Go ahead and be pissed and fuck me. That’s fine.”

“No, it’s not ‘fine,’ Roman! It doesn’t work like that—”

“It can,” Roman interrupts. He fixes a determined look on his face and stares coldly at Peter. “I could force you to do it, you know.”

Peter’s eyes narrow dangerously and he half-growls, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Roman shrugs, a bitter smirk touching his lips, “Maybe, maybe not. But you can go ahead and keep your mind safe if you just—”

Peter growls and grabs Roman by the back of his neck, pulling him forward into a forceful kiss. It’s bruising and vicious, a kiss of purpose rather than affection. “You’re injured,” Peter mutters into Roman’s lips. “I’ll hurt you if I fuck you while I’m this angry.”

He feels Roman gasp against his mouth, half-desperate sounding. “Then hurt me. Punish me. Just fuck me! Come _on_.”

Peter doesn’t know how to respond except to kiss harder. His hands are rough as he grabs the waist of Roman’s jeans, biting Roman’s lip as he begins to strip them both. Roman is bossy and insistent, goading Peter and calling him foul names under his breath. Peter fucks his tongue into Roman’s mouth to silence him, grabbing Roman’s hair by the roots and pulling hard. Roman gasps, in pain or pleasure it’s hard to tell. Peter’s mouth then dips to Roman’s throat, where he bites a little too hard. Roman nearly screams at that and he grabs Peter by the hips, grinding against him.

Peter spins Roman around, pinning him against the library chair and yanking his jeans down to his knees. The vampire presses back as Peter starts to press a spit-coated finger into him. He inserts a second then, dry and rough. He curves his fingers cruelly, making Roman feel it. The vampire makes a slightly pained sound, then looks back at Peter challengingly.

“I thought you said you were pissed.” Roman’s voice is thick and heavy, a mix of lust and provocation. “Stop treating me with kids’ gloves. Just fuck me, you goddamn pussy.” 

 Peter blinks for a second, unbelieving. Then he pulls his hand away, spitting in his other palm to coat his dick at least a bit. As he presses in, Roman gasps at the pain, then pushes back roughly, forcing Peter to go in deeper and faster than he planned for the first thrust. Peter snarls and grabs Roman by the hair. “You are not setting the pace here,” Peter says hotly against his ear. “You asked for it—so just fucking take it.” He pushes Roman’s head forward, pressing his face against the rough embroidery of the library chair. Then he pulls back and snaps his hips forward again sharply. The noise Roman makes is high and gasping. Peter grits his teeth and begins to fuck him ruthlessly, hard and punishing. His blood boils as his mind rushes through everything he’s furious about—the girl in Roman’s room, Roman’s dismissive lack of carrying, the fight, Roman trying to control him, the attack, Letha. In all translates into Peter’s brutal pace, snapping his hips forward as he grips Roman’s hips with bruising force.

The wolf smells blood before Peter does. Roman’s bleeding—not much but a bit—torn by the roughness and the pace. He’s keening and gasping, each thrust clearly causing him pain. Peter feels his blood run cold and he stops his thrusts immediately, his stomach tight and nauseous in the realization of what he’s done.

“What—?” Roman looks back, his pupils blown and face flushed. “You stopped.”

“I’m hurting you. Jesus, Roman, I can’t—” Roman groans and rolls his hips a bit. Peter growls and clamps his hands down hard on Roman’s hips to hold him still. “Stop it! You’re bleeding, and—”

“If you were actually hurting me in any serious way,” Roman pants, “you’d be on the other side of the room by now. I’m not some waifish victim, Peter. Goddamn it! This is helping!”

Peter blinks a moment in confusion. “What?”

He can practically feel the force of Roman’s eye roll. “Emotion is a kind of energy. The more focused emotion you have when we’re having sex, the more I can take to heal.”

“So, you _wanted_ me to be furious at you? To stay angry?”

Roman tries to shrug, still holding onto the library chair for balance. “Limited options. Given how today has been going, I wasn’t going to get sugary sweet emotions. Work with what you have, right?”

Peter feels mildly ill. He closes his eyes and leans his head against Roman’s shoulder. They’re both slightly slick with sweat, panting. “I don’t—I don’t want any more hurt.”

Roman curses a little under his breath. “I really need it. Peter, _please_!” The tone is almost begging, very un-Godfrey-like. Peter presses his face against Roman’s shoulder harder.

“Just…. Shhhhh….” Peter rolls his hips slowly, starting to thrust again, but this time with deliberate intention. His hands wander along Roman’s body, pressing against cool flesh as if to remind himself of every angle and curve of Roman’s skin. His pace increases, and he thinks not of the anger of the day, but of the panic. The car ride. Roman bleeding, eyes silver with pain and want. Peter thinks of his fear, of thinking, ‘ _Roman’s dying, oh god, Roman’s dying and I don’t know what to do._ ’ Of not hesitating to offer himself to Roman, because fear for his own life was still shockingly less than fear of what would happen if he didn’t offer. Peter’s not sure if he can call it love, but he knows every cell in his body didn’t want Roman to die. He wanted to grab him, to scoop his blood back into him, to keep him here. ‘ _I almost lost you today_ ,’ Peter thinks, practically daring Roman to hear him. ‘ _This is what that felt like—the feeling when I first saw you covered in blood. The relief when your eyes seemed clearer again. This is how it all felt—just take it_.’

Roman is crying loudly now, responding to Peter’s intense emotions. Peter pauses, slipping out just long enough to turn Roman around to they’re face to face. Peter rotates them both so that he’s sitting in the library chair, pulling Roman forward so the vampire is straddling him. Roman holds his eye contact as he slides down on Peter’s cock, both of them moaning together now. The pace has changed—it is desperate and greedy, both pulling and grasping like they are starving for each other’s skin. Roman moves faster, riding Peter as he presses their mouths together with a passion that is burning. Peter gasps, throwing his head back as Roman clenches around him. Roman immediately takes advantage of the angle, mouth and tongue latching onto Peter’s throat and sucking marks there. Peter moans and thrusts up into Roman, who makes an equally pleasurable sound.

“Peter, can I—please, I need.” Roman nuzzles at Peter’s throat, tonging against his pulse.

Peter shudders. “I thought—you choked in the car. Isn’t werewolf blood—?”

“Absolutely disgusting. Don’t care. Need you.” Roman rolls his hips again, pressing his body hot against Peter’s.

Peter hesitates for a moment, then nods, tilting his head further back against the library chair to give Roman better access. Roman moans, licking and sucking for another few seconds before biting down.

The fangs are sharp and needle-like—they sting for only a second and then retract again as Roman sucks on the punctures furiously. Peter’s whole body feels hot, wanting. He’s close. He continues to thrust up into Roman as the vampire pulls and sucks. The pace becomes more frantic, wild as Roman pulls back and kisses Peter hot on the mouth. To Peter, the kiss just tastes like blood—like fresh steak or dead rabbits. He wonders how it’s different for Roman.

“You’re an acquired taste, I think” Roman says, as if reading his mind. “Not so bad this time.”

They kiss again, breathes hot and mingling. Roman reaches up and presses his fingers against the bite mark on Peter’s throat. It hurts, and that’s all it takes to send Peter tumbling over the edge, his vision turning white as he grasps Roman’s hips, his cock pulsing as he comes. Roman’s not far behind, grasping himself hard as he licks at a trickle of blood still leaking from Peter’s neck.

They don’t talk for a while after that. It’s not a pained silence. Just a necessary one. Roman leads Peter to a guest room shower, and they both silently touch each other under the warm spray, as if each confirming quietly that the other still exists. Peter finds his vision darkening, his head bobbing in near-dozing from time to time.

“I took a lot from you,” Roman whispers, as if afraid of breaking the reverent silence. “We’ll get you to bed—we’ll both be better in the morning.”

Peter murmurs an agreement. They towel off and Roman ushers him toward a guest bed nearby. As Roman starts to pull away though, presumably to head back to his own room, Peter grasps his wrist firmly, growling deep in his throat. Roman looks at him a moment, quietly questioning. When Peter doesn’t let go of his wrist, Roman nods and slides into the bed next to him. Peter nuzzles against him possessively, too drained to feel anything but contentment as they both drift off to sleep.


	10. Evolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, it’s done. I barely managed to squeak this in before my arbitrary “before Season Two starts” deadline (about eighteen hours before the Netflix full-season launch). Consider this story finished and, as of July 11th, in alternative continuity. Thanks for reading

_You think she looks like an angel. Right now, with the sun shining through her hair, creating a golden halo. But then, she’s always been an angel to you. She smiles and your heart tightens in your chest. She’s the only truly good thing in your life. There’s Shelly too, but there’s sadness and pain there, with how she looks and how people treat her. But with Letha, it’s an easy goodness. You sigh and feel the blades of grass against your skin. It’s a Sunday afternoon and she’s made some feeble excuse to her parents to get out of dinner with them, so you have until a few hours past sundown to lay lazily in the park, your fingers tangled with hers, to talk about school and family, hopes and dreams. She tells you sometimes she feels like she’ll break into pieces if she doesn’t get out of this town. That she wants to do something special in her life, to be something special. You rub the inside of her wrist with your fingers and insist that she’s special to you. She smiles and shakes her head, saying, “You don’t count.”_

_. ._

_Now it’s a Friday night and you want to rip Mark Camben’s throat out. Instead you just storm out of the party and light a cigarette. You can tell she’s behind you, drunk and fuming. “What the hell, Roman!” she yells. “You can’t threaten a guy just because he acts like he likes me! Jealous much?” She nearly trips on a loose rock on the road. You snarl, wanting to say that you absolutely can do just that. But that’s not it. Well, not entirely. “Mark is slime,” you practically spit. “If you want to end up passed out and date raped, do it sometime that I’m not here to watch over you. But yeah, I am going to threaten a guy like that. Hell, I should’ve done much, much worse.” She sighs at you, trying to shake her head but then thinking better of it as her brain probably swims from too much jungle juice. “Between you and my dad—I swear, you want me to be some kind of chaste princess! A doll you can keep in a glass case and only take out when—” she stops abruptly, groaning for a second before she turns and vomits on the ground. You are over at her side immediately. You pull back her hair, whisper softly as you place a comforting hand on her back. She murmurs thanks as you wipe the bile from her lips. On the ride home, she falls asleep on your shoulder as if it’s the most comfortable place in the world._

_. ._

_Then it’s Christmas. Shelly is playing piano, and your parents are talking in that tense way where they’re trying to act like family but there are hurts and secrets under the surface, and you are sneaking quietly up to your room with Letha.  She almost ruins it by laughing a few times, and you comically cover her mouth, make an exaggerated shushing sound that makes her laugh harder. You’re grinning from ear to ear, your face flushed. This is a ritual—something you’ve done since you were kids. There are presents exchanged with the families, toys as children and typically cash as teenagers, but you and Letha have always given each other something extra, something just from and for each other. This year she gives you a pair of cufflinks that are pewter-looking silver and in the shape of wolves. “I don’t know why,” she says, her shrug causing her blond hair to slip over her shoulder. “They just called to me, saying they were for you.” You love them, you tell her, and it’s true. Then you hand her your gift—a bundle of roadmaps wrapped in silk ribbon. She purses her lips, looking up at you, confused. “I thought we could go on a road trip,” you say. “Get out of the Grove. Go visit some colleges you want to see—plan your special and amazing future.” You feel vaguely manipulative for how perfect the gift is, handing her a bundle of her greatest hopes. Sure enough, she tears up, her smile wide and shining. She throws her arms around you, tells you the gift is perfect, how she can’t wait, and then she’s kissing you and you’re kissing back. This has happened before—nearly countless times. As your tongue slides against hers and you hesitantly thread your fingers through her soft hair, you know where this will lead. You’ll break apart and her eyes will look to the ground, not meeting yours again for at least an hour. Then you’ll both agree that it shouldn’t have happened—that it can’t happen again. It’s weird, you’ll agree. You’re cousins. But no one cares for each other like you do, and the draw to each other is like a constant magnetic pull. So you’ll fall and fall again, your lips on hers, her hands slipping under the hem of your shirt. You’ll promise and promise that it’ll never happen again and always know you’re lying._

_. ._

_Her father—dear Uncle Norman —won’t let her go on the road trip. You kind of expected as much, but Letha hadn’t. She yells and cries, calling him controlling. Your uncle keeps glancing over at you, furious for putting him in this position. Like he knows it was a chess move in the game of possession for Letha’s heart, a move which so clearly pulls her away from her father and towards you. That’s not the reason you did it—not completely. But you knew the result if he said ‘no.’ You propose a local camping trip instead, something shorter and safer. He grimaces, clearly still not happy about it, but now he has to say yes. You leave that weekend, your Porsche packed tight with sleeping bags, fishing rods, and a handle of whiskey hidden in the trunk. Letha sings Britney Spears and Katy Perry songs the whole drive, but you don’t complain because she looks so blissfully happy. And that’s really all you want, for the most part. To make her happy. It makes you feel like a good person, something you’re really not sure that you are deep down._

_That night, neither of you drink. Letha just wants to stare at the stars and talk about old stories. Not long before you both go to bed, she mutters, “You know, it used to be that cousins got married all the time. Turns out both Einstein and Darwin married their first cousins. Did you… know that?” You don’t know what to say, so you light a cigarette and don’t say anything at all._

_The next night, you both polish off the whiskey with a tense determination, knowing where it will lead. Soon you’re all tongues and hands, pushing her dress off her shoulders as she unbuckles your belt. “Are you sure?” you whisper, almost kicking yourself as you do so. Thankfully she whispers her agreement against your lips. You mold your hands against her skin, tongue her open until she’s wet and shaking. You didn’t bring protection—and you honestly would be hesitant to leave her touch for it, even if you did—but she doesn’t seem to care, keeps pulling you towards her with her small legs. When you push into her fully, you know it hurts and she cries a bit against your neck.  Everything makes sense. You’ve never felt like you cared for anyone like you care for Letha. This is right. You thrust harder, kissing away her tears, wishing this could last forever._

_. ._

_It’s February, just a month after the camping trip. You and Letha have seen as much of each other as you can since then, but between parents, Shelly, and a new semester at school, alone time has been scarce. There have been a handful of intimate moments, stolen kisses and passionate fondling, but they’ve been few and far between. You hunger for Letha. You have dreams about her—ones which begin with soft lovemaking and gradually shift into a nightmare of blood. You dream you rip her apart. You dream she screams. You wake up disturbed by these dreams, but more disturbed at how alive they make you feel._

_Then you get the phone call—Letha’s parents are worried. She won’t come out of her room. She won’t stop crying and won’t tell them why. In desperation, her father has turned to you. You rush over as fast your Porsche will take you, bound up the stairs with barely a word of greeting to your aunt and uncle. You knock tentatively. “Letha?” She practically pulls you inside her room, buries her face in your chest. She won’t stop sobbing. With trembling arms, she hands you a thin white stick. A pregnancy test. Fuck._

_You suck in your breath and feel your blood run cold. You hold her until her sobbing starts to soften. “What do you want to do?” you say. “I can look for a doctor to get rid of it, you know—we could say we’re taking a day trip to—” “No!” she interrupts immediately, her eyes wide. “No, no, no! I couldn’t live with myself if I killed it. It’s a person, Roman! Or, at least, it will be. I—I just couldn’t!” You grind your teeth in annoyance. You don’t understand why killing something that “will be” a person is that big of a deal, but Letha is insistent. Her voice tightens and she starts to shake again as she bemoans what to tell her parents, what people will say. “Oh God, Roman we should never have done this, I don’t know if I can live with what people will—how could this happen?!” You stop yourself from making a sarcastic comment about sex-ed. It would just be a defense mechanism anyway, something to distance yourself. “I just—I wish I was dead. I don’t—I—I almost grabbed some of my mom’s old sleeping pills. It just seemed easier.” You grab her by the shoulders so hard it almost bruises. “You what?! So killing it is wrong, but killing yourself—thereby killing it anyway—is fine? What the fuck—you idiot!” Letha winces and shakes her head, sniffling, “It’s not fine. But I don’t think I can face this! I don’t know what to—what to—” She starts to hyperventilate again. In the next moment, which feels like a small eternity, you make a decision._

_You sit down with Letha on the bed and tilt her head so that she’s looking at your eyes.  “Letha,” you whisper. And then you push. It’s like breaking through an invisible membrane. Her eyes become glassy, and you’re in. “Letha, I want you to listen to me. You’re okay. You’re fine. You’re calm. It’s going to be okay.” Her shoulders relax slightly and her breathing slows. “It’s going to be okay because you’re going to be the best mom in the world. You’re going to love that baby like it’s a piece of your soul. Nothing is going to make you happier.” You take a deep breath. “You—you don’t know who the father is. You don’t remember having sex. It was an angel, like in the bible story. Which is fitting, I guess—” Your voice cracks slightly. “You’re going to meet a great guy. Not an asshole like Mark Camben. Someone who sees you for who you are, who wants to take care of you. Someone kind. And he’s going to be your first time. It’ll be beautiful and special—everything you ever wanted. And it won’t even hurt.” You feel your eyes start to sting with unshed tears. This next part feels like you’re ripping away a part of your soul. You feel blood start to trickle out of your nose. “You were never in love with me. We never kissed. Ever. We’ve always just been cousins. We love each other, but as family. I’m not the man you want. I never was.” You pull back, the membrane reclosing behind her eyes. You wipe your bloody nose. Your eyes have stopped stinging, the tears suddenly dry. Letha blinks, her gaze starting to refocus. “It’ll be okay,” she sighs. “I think… I think I can handle this. In fact,” she smiles and her cheeks flush, “I’m weirdly kind of excited.”_

_“You’ll be a good mom,” you agree. You kiss her on the forehead, chaste and familial. You leave and tell your aunt and uncle that Letha has calmed down, that she’ll be down to tell them what was wrong shortly. That night you get dangerously drunk and fuck Casey Lennen so hard she complains about it for a week. You insult one of Mark’s douchebag friends, prompting him to take a swing at you. You nearly crack his head open in retaliation, and you tumble into a fight that leaves you both sore and bleeding. None of it makes your heart hurt less. You wonder if anything ever will._

_. ._

Peter gaps awake, alone in a cool bed, his pulse racing. He stares at his hands, taking a moment to remind himself where he is—to remind himself _who_ he is. He reaches for his wolf, who stirs from sleep and prickles its fur beneath Peter’s skin. When he’s sufficiently grounded, Peter carefully makes his way out of the Godfrey house guest room and over to the main living room.

There Roman stands, staring out the window, a mason jar full of defrosted blood in one hand. His hair is slightly tussled, like he’s just recently woken up too. 

“Hey,” Peter mutters.

“Hey,” Roman says in kind.

“How are you feeling?”

Roman shrugs one shoulder. “I’m healed up and not bleeding from my side anymore.” He takes a gulp of the mason jar’s contents, careful not to meet Peter’s gaze.

Peter hesitates for a moment before blurting out, “Were you just dreaming about Letha?”

Roman starts, eyes flashing in confusion. “More like remembering while sleeping, I guess. Why?”

Peter takes a breath. “I think we dream-shared again.”

“Fuck,” Roman says. His pale face flushes slightly.

“Was that—was that how it happened?”

Roman nods, swallowing nervously. “Pretty much. Yeah.”

Peter huffs out a loud breath and shakes his head. “Shit.” He walks over to the window, next to Roman, and leans against the glass. “I’m not… I’m not actually sure I would do anything different. You did what you thought was right. I mean, you loved her.”

“I did,” Roman agrees. “I still do, even though she’s dead.”

Peter nods slowly. “It must have terrified you. Letha flirting with me—a gypsy drifter, pretty much the definition of ‘bad news.’ After the sacrifice you made, you just wanted her with someone normal and safe.”

“Yeah, well,” Roman grimaces to himself as he takes another sip of the blood, “turns out it wouldn’t have made a difference. I still killed her in the end.”

 “You…” Peter shakes his head and stares out the window, unsure of how to meet Roman’s gaze, “you didn’t mean to, Roman. You loved her. Fuck what that guy said—you’re no killer.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“I know,” Peter insists firmly. They stand together in near-comfortable silence for a moment before Peter asks “So, what are we going to do?”

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything,” Roman says flatly. “But _you_ are going to go back home. Check on your mom. Maybe run in the woods. Chase your tail. All that shit.”

Peter frowns. “And what about you?”

Roman’s grip tightens on the mason jar. Peter can hear the crackling sound of the stressed glass. “I’m going to go to Godfrey Industries and very clearly explain to the Bishop that he needs to leave me alone.”

Peter’s spine stiffens. “And if he doesn’t agree?”

Roman’s face darkens and he takes in another mouthful of blood. “Then I’ll show him what he wants to see. That I’m a monster.”

“You’re not—”

“Don’t kid yourself, Rumancek,” Roman interrupts sharply. “If it’s him or me, I’m surviving. I don’t want to kill anyone, but if I have to I will.”

“That doesn’t make you a monster. That makes you a survivor,” Peter insists.

Roman hesitates then looks up at Peter. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Peter nods. “But they know who you are, and that you know who the Bishop is. They’ll probably expect you—and so they’ll be prepared. Who knows how many other guys with swords or God knows what else they’ll have waiting for you.” When Roman doesn’t respond, Peter sighs. “Well, clearly I’m going with you.”

Roman starts, the mason jar nearly slipping from his hand. “What? No—absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dangerous, you idiot—did you not listen to what you _just_ said about guys with swords?”

“If you’re going in, I’m going in too.”

“No!”

“I’m not arguing with you about this.”

“Fuck you—”

“Why shouldn’t I go?”

“Because, you asshole, I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt. Or worse.”

“Well I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt—or worse—and I wasn’t there to help watch your back.”

Roman’s eyes flash and he grits his teeth angrily. “Why do you even care?! You were leaving me anyway. You know I’m not worth it, so just—”

Peter stops Roman’s fury with a kiss. It’s fierce and passionate, the energy of everything that has happened over the course of the day. “Just shut up and let me help you. You’re worth it. And, for the record, I’m not going anywhere.”

The sound that erupts from Roman’s mouth is small and pitiful, a strangled sob. He buries his face in Peter’s neck, hands scraping at his shoulders. The two men stand, clinging together, for a long quiet moment while the sun starts to disappear behind the Hemlock Grove horizon.

“Okay,” Roman finally whispers, pulling back to wipe away the evidence of tears. “Call your mom—let her know you’re being an idiot. Then let’s go piss off a bunch of monster hunters.”

.

.

The hunters rush past, and Michael can hear the click of guns being loaded and swords being checked and sheathed. The Bishop, meanwhile, is fuming. “One vampire! One! And a new one at that! And you call yourself the arm of the Vatican?”

“There was information we did not have,” Michael insists. His chest feels tight and he lets out a shuttering breath. “Roman Godfrey has a werewolf ally. Apparently they’re involved. I... I think it might be the werewolf who killed my sister, your excellence.”

A flash of confusion passes over the Bishop’s face. “The werewolf who killed…? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” The Bishop’s features soften ever so slightly. “Oh, my child, the Lord does put such challenges before those he cherishes. Yes. Surely, this is your chance to avenge your sister’s death and do His will. Protect our Order and slay these demons.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael bows his head and picks up his sword. There is something troubling about the Bishop’s change of tone, but he’ll worry about that later. For now, he has monsters to stop.

It’s nightfall when they arrive. Roman Godfrey, dressed in a rich black jacket and designer slacks, strolls into the building’s lobby likes he owns it. His face is cool and determined, his cheeks a soft shade of pink like he has recently fed. Michael’s grip tightens on his rapier’s hilt. Next to Godfrey’s side, a large gray and brown wolf stalks, eyes a clear yellow and ears high on alert.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Godfrey announces coolly. “I only want to speak to the Bishop.” The only answer to his request is the sound of the safeties on the guns around the lobby perimeter being clicked into release. The wolf growls menacingly, but Godfrey shushes it. “Last chance—let me through.” Hesitating, he adds a flat “please.”

One of the hunters tightens his finger on the trigger. His gun goes off and, after that, it’s chaos. Godfrey is a blur of motion, separating hunters from their weapons if he can, dodging and striking. The wolf’s snarls are loud, even over the gunfire. Its teeth clamp onto one hunter’s pant leg, pulling hard and jamming his fur-covered body against him to throw the man off balance. The hunter screams loudly, afraid of becoming bitten, and turns to fire at the wolf. His attempts are stopped quickly by the crushing grip of Godfrey, whose strength breaks the man’s hand with a deafening crunch.

Michael grits his teeth and backs away, protecting the entrance to the Bishop’s office. Roman appears to be shockingly strong, even by vampire standards. Michael silently curses Olivia Godfrey’s hellish bloodline as, one by one, the twelve hunters who guard the lobby fall.

.

.

Roman’s breath comes hard and fast as he punches the last hunter—a woman with some sort of hooked katana—in the throat. Peter’s wolf growls at the woman, as if telling her to stay down. The door is now blocked only by a final obstacle, the same man who stabbed him earlier.

“I will not let you harm the Bishop, demon,” the man asserts, his this sword poised at the ready.

“And I won’t let myself be hunted and killed for absolutely no reason,” Roman snaps in return. “You assholes came after me first! And right back there—one of your guys fired his gun at us before we’d done _anything_. You keep telling me that I’m some sort of violent monster, but it seems like you guys want to kill a hell of a lot more than I do.” The wolf at his side snarls in agreement.

“I will not listen to your tricks,” the man scoffs. He raises his sword and moves forward to strike. The wolf is on him in an instant, jaws crunching down on the man’s arm. He screams, pushing Peter’s wolf off of him. The wolf just snarls and pounces again. Roman hesitates a moment, wondering if he should help Peter, but the wolf seems to have the situation under control so Roman steadies himself and slips past the doorway and into the Bishop’s office.

.

.

The bite is hot and burning. Though fresh, it feels infected. Michael grimaces and tries to reach for his sword, but his left hand won’t close—the bite is deep and has severed something—and another deep bite in his right shoulder has rendered his other arm useless as well. He closes his eyes and says a quick prayer, waiting for the inevitable, for the werewolf to finish him off.

When nothing happens, Michael opens his eyes again.

Before him, brown fur dissolves back into human flesh. The boy groans as his mouth returns to normal, lips and teeth reforming over the remains of the wolf’s muzzle. He coughs for a moment, spits out a mouthful of blood. Then he looks up at Michael, his green eyes crisp and clear.

“What are you doing?” Michael chokes out. “You’ve won. Kill me.”

The boy frowns. “I thought we’d made it pretty clear that wasn’t our goal. You’ll notice we didn’t kill any of your friends either.” He gestures at the hunters, unconscious or groaning on the ground around them.

“You may as well have killed me,” Michael spits. “I’m bitten now. Infected. A monster.”

The young man lets a surprised laugh escape from his lips. “You’re a fan of the ‘m’ word, aren’t you? Look, we’re not monsters. We’re different. But we make choices just like anyone else—Roman chooses every day not to kill, to not be his mother. And that whole cousin situation? Not what you think it is. I got a peak into his memories. Trust me on this. And, for the record, I haven't killed anyone in my life either. A lot of wildlife, sure, but no people. My mom did a good job of teaching me how to deal with the wolf, and because of her I’ve never slipped up. You’re actually the first person I’ve ever bitten… sorry about that. You didn’t really leave me much of a choice though.”

Michael stares at the young man in confusion. “… what about my sister? She was killed looking for you in Hemlock Grove.”

The boy frowns, brow wrinkling for a moment before he gasps in realization. “Shit—that wildlife agent. Um, Clementine, right? She was your sister?” Michael nods, teeth gritted in silent fury. The young man just shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. I actually didn’t know she was dead. We were hunting a Vargulf. That could have gotten her I guess, but I never heard about a body and it’s not like a rabid werewolf cleans up after itself. But, I promise you, I didn’t kill your sister.”

Michael’s heart sinks. He was so sure he had the answer—that the questions raised by the mysteriously empty file were answered. But the creature does seem like he’s telling the honest truth, leaving Michael with a sinking heart. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but the boy holds up a hand, requesting silence. Then the young man bolts forward, his head tilted sideways and straining toward the Bishop’s office. There is yelling coming from the room, and it’s getting louder. Michael watches as the boy’s eyes glint yellow again and his skin begins to stretch and tear, the wolf emerging once again.

Perhaps against his better judgment, Michael does not use the transformation to his tactical advantage. Instead, like the young werewolf, he tilts his head toward the door and listens.

.

.

“Why me?!” Roman demands furiously. The Bishop had been ready and is now training a silver pistol on him, but Roman refuses to be intimidated. “I haven’t done anything to you and I haven’t—I haven’t killed. Not like my mother. If you’re supposed to kill ‘monsters,’ why didn’t you go after her?”

The Bishop raises an eyebrow and then half-shrugs, as if the information is trivial. “It would have been politically and economically inconvenient to go after your mother. She knew this as well as I did. Which is why she killed Clementine so brutally—it was a message to me. A dare: I could choose to go after her head-on and give up any hope of gaining a control of Godfrey Industries, or I could help cover up her murders and turn a blind eye in exchange for having a chance at perhaps the greatest weapon imaginable.”

Roman’s stomach sinks. “Weapon?”

“Yes, my boy. You really don’t pay any attention to what your company does, do you? Dr. Pryce has been working on creating vampire-animal and vampire-human hybrids. The DNA from your cousin's fetus was actually quite helpful there. Your mother let us sample it, knowing what it could help create. Something as deadly as you, but easier to control. Imagine a pack of dogs—trained to kill vampires—that had the same speed and abilities that you do. A pack completely in the Vatican’s control. That is worth a few broken eggs.”

“You mean ‘a few broken people,’” Roman spits back. “Including me.”

“Oh, dear lad, you are no person,” the Bishop laughs. “But yes, perhaps you’re right. Your mother certainly deserved our wrath, and—in many ways—you do not. But that is the reality of life, and ultimately your guilt is inconsequential. You stand in my way, and you _are_ a demonic creature. I shall lose no sleep over your demise, and your death shall be mourned by no one.”

The Bishop clicks his pistol to ready and braces to fire. The action is immediately interrupted by a blur of fur and teeth, Peter’s wolvish jaws crunching down on the Bishop’s hand. The older man screams, backhanding the wolf and forcing it off of his arm. Roman takes the opportunity to rush forward, grabbing the Bishop’s injured arm and trying to force the gun from his hand. In the struggle, the gun fires blindly. Roman hears a loud yelp and his blood runs cold.

“Peter?!” Roman turns and sees the wolf on the ground, blood pooling from its side. “No! Oh shit, Peter!” Without thinking, Roman lets go of the Bishop and rushes over to the animal’s side. There is blood rushing from the wound, raw and red. Roman collapses to his knees and presses down on the wound hard, trying to stop the bleeding. His heart is in his throat, every nerve a livewire of panic—so much so that he barely hears the click of the Bishop’s gun, poised and ready to fire.

But there’s no burst of a shot, no explosion of sound. Instead, just a bubbling gurgle as a thin silver rapier is pushed though the Bishop’s chest. “May God forgive us all,” the hunter whispers as the Bishop collapses to the ground.

.

.

Michael watches as the Bishop’s body falls to the ground, his blood pooling on the marble floor. Roman Godfrey stares in shock. “You—you just—” Then he shakes himself and turns back to the wolf. “He’s bleeding badly! I don’t know what to do!” the vampire half-sobs. Michael stumbles over and looks at the wolf’s wound.

“You’re doing well,” he insists. “Just keep applying pressure. In a few minutes, feed him a little bit of your blood—not much, just a few drops. That should help speed up healing. The rest his body will heal itself before he shifts back into his human form.”

“Yeah?” Roman’s eyes are crazed with worry. Michael was always taught that these monsters didn't feel and didn't show mercy. But now it is hard to ignore the weight of the counter evidence. Everything about Roman Godfrey and his werewolf screams of caring and passion. Of love. 

“It’s why werewolves are so difficult to kill." Michael continues. "They’re excellent healers.” Sure enough, Michael looks down at his own bite wounds. The skin has already started to stitch together and heal. “Hurry though—the hunters are recovering and may call for reinforcements. If you want to escape alive, we must leave now.”

.

.

Peter wakes up feeling like death warmed over, a phantom pain in his side and the taste of blood in his mouth. He groans and tries to sit up, only to be pushed back down again by a cool hand. “Careful,” Roman says. “You just shifted back, and you’re definitely still injured.”

“What—?”

“You were shot,” Roman explains.

Peter closes his eyes and feels the world moving around him. Cracking an eye open, he sees the landscape moving outside glass windows. “Where are we? This isn’t your car.”

“No, we made a trade-in. And by trade in, I mean that some guy is going to be very shocked and pretty fucking happy when his head clears and he discovers that he has a practically new sports-car rather than his ratty old Honda. Seriously, this thing looks like shit.”

“It’s less conspicuous,” a voice calls from the driver’s seat.

Peter’s eyes adjust to the darkness and he gasps, his whole body tensing. “What the fuck is—”  

“Don’t worry,” Roman puts a hand on his neck, soft but firm. “He’s on our side now.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I killed my mentor, the Bishop,” the hunter says flatly, his expression grim.

Peter blinks, stunned. “What? Why?”

The man hesitates. “My whole life I’ve believed in the Justice of the Lord. The Bishop knew that—it’s how he got me to join the Order. Clementine joined because I did. But that wasn’t real Justice. You were right—you two aren’t monsters. The Bishop was concerned with weapons and politics, not with doing what’s right. I couldn’t sit back and let him kill you. So I acted. Besides,” he raises his hand, the bite mark still garishly raw, “I guess I’m going to be a monster now too. I suppose I need to start believing that even a demon can do the right thing.”

Roman makes a semi-bitter sound and rests his head against Peter’s shoulder. “You can try, anyway. And I guess you’ll just have to hope that’s enough.”

“I guess so,” the hunter agrees. He exits the freeway and Peter realizes that they’re only a few miles away from his New York home. “The Order will be looking for you, you know. You invaded their facility. They won’t let you get away with that.”

Peter sighs. “Time to run again.” He’s not sure, but he thinks he feels Roman tense beside him.

.

.

When they pull up to Peter’s home, Lynda is out of the house like a racehorse. She wraps a blanket around Peter’s bare shoulders, asks about his injuries, whispers to him in Romanian as she gathers him into her arms. She ushers them into the house, shakes Michael’s hand, makes them all tea, and listens as the story pours out of them. She is surprisingly calm by the time the story ends.

“You’re gonna have to run, baby.” She looks at Peter meaningfully. He nods.

“I know. Can I take the emergency stash?”

She nods, turning to retrieve a stack of bills from a coffee can. “You’ll have to lay low. Contact me when you can, but make sure you’re as in the clear as possible.”

“I will.” Peter leans in and grasps his mother in a hug. “Thank you.” He turns to where Michael is sitting, sipping a cup of tea that Lynda made for him. “What are you going to do?”

Michael shrugs one shoulder. “There are creatures out there that hurt people. Not every werewolf or vampire is like you. And the fact that the Vatican turned a blind eye to the worst of them because of politics… well, I guess I can go after them on my own. After all, I’m a lone wolf now. No pun intended.”

Peter nods grimly. “Just make sure they deserve it before you try to turn them into a pin cushion, alright?” Michael nods and raises his tea mug as if in a toast. “Also, you should talk to my mom. She can probably answer a lot of your questions about the change.”

Lynda raises an eyebrow but then smiles softly. “I’ve been helping this one shift since he was a child. Trust me, shifter kids are enough to give you a heart attack.” She chuckles to herself, shaking her head. “I’d be happy to give you the cliff notes.”

“Thank you,” Michael sighs. “I’d really appreciate that.”

Roman is notably silent. Then the ceramic mug shatters in his hand. “Excuse me,” he mutters, pushing himself away from the table and hurrying out of the house. Peter is behind him within moments.

“Hey—what is it?” Peter puts his hand on Roman’s shoulder, but the _upir_  shoves it away.

“What is it? My whole life is in shambles. I’m not going to be a Princeton student, or a shareholder, or an expected face at a nightclub. I won’t be able to _be_ Roman Godfrey anymore. At all.”

Peter is silent a moment before whispering. “I’m not entirely convinced that’s a bad thing. This is your chance to just be you, not what anyone else wanted you to be. Not what Olivia wanted you to be.”

Roman groans as he licks a trickle of blood off his wrist, more still seeping from the cuts on his palm. “I just don’t see how this is going to work.”

“Well… I suppose we’ll get back in the car and start driving west.” Peter says. “Maybe to California, or Oregon. We’ll stop along the way, meet new people and see new things.”

Roman looks up at him, disbelieving. “I need cities to hunt, and you’ll need to run.”

“We’ll alternate when we can. City one day, forest the next.”

“We don’t even have the same music taste, and you expect us to share a car radio for god knows how long?”

“Again, we’ll alternate.”

“We’ll fight, you know. We don’t go long without one of us biting the other’s head off.”

“And then we’ll make up. And the make up sex with us is always pretty great.”

Peter’s voice is round and charming. Roman half-snorts, his voice trembling as he mentions: “You might change your mind. I can’t—I literally will have nothing left. No family, no name. You run, Peter. That's your answer. What's to stop you from running away from me again? I—I need—”

Peter steps forward and presses his forehead against Roman’s. “I already told you. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Godfrey.”

Lydia watches from the house as the two young men embrace, burying their faces into each other’s shoulders.

As the sun starts to lighten the sky to a pale purple, the promise of sunrise, she can’t help but notice the feint hint of hope and optimism glistening behind her son’s eyes. It’s dangerous, but it’s an adventure. It’s human life, sweat and blood, laughter and tears. It’s so much more to Peter now than just the time in between the wolf.

They pack up bags quickly, their eyes on the horizon.

“You’re not the only Godfrey on the run, you know,” Peter mentions. “Maybe we’ll find Shelly.”

Roman pauses, blinking for a moment at the idea. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.” He sighs, watching the clouds outside the window shift to pale pink. “So much is going to be different. _I’m_ going to have to be different. I feel like these past few years I’ve been wrapped up tightly—like in a cocoon—and I don’t know what I’ll evolve into when it’s all said and done.”

“Like a butterfly?” Peter asks. Roman shakes his head.

“Butterflies make chrysalises, not cocoons.”

“Same thing, right?” Peter zips up his duffel-bag and looks up at Roman. “Either way, it’s change. And we won’t know if it’s good or bad until it happens. Not knowing is a part of the journey.” Roman stares at Peter a second before crossing the room in a blur. He pulls Peter to him, practically devouring him in a kiss. Peter sighs and leans in. “It’ll be okay,” he whispers against Roman’s throat. “You aren’t alone.” He sighs again, like the significance of the statement is suddenly real to him. “Neither of us are alone anymore.”

The car is packed within the half-hour, and the boys only briefly fight over who’s going to drive the first leg (Roman finally convinces Peter that he’s less injured and should take the first shift while the young werewolf heals). They wish Michael luck, ask Lynda to give their best to Destiny, and give her the fiercest goodbye hugs she could ever imagine. It kills her that this is it—that she might never see her son again. But this is how it has to be. In some ways, it was the only way it could be.

She watches as the car pulls away, taking Roman and Peter into the unknown, the sun’s orange light spills over the road, lighting the way for something new. 

**…**

_"We are all on a journey of constant change. We are snakes shedding our skins. We are butterflies and the world is our chrysalis."_

END


End file.
